Only a Violet from My Mother's Grave
by Amberlin
Summary: The memoirs of a young maid who would later become one of the most famous murder victims in history and who stood as the only woman to touch the Great Detective's heart. Of course, this was long before he was the Great Detective...
1. Author's note

Hello there!!!

This book is for sale on amazon and lulu but I realized that I felt . . . I don't know, weird, only having a few chapters up here. I feel like you people deserve the whole thing and I trust that if you like it enough, you will go check into getting a physical copy for yourself. If you don't, then I guess I just didn't capture you like I should have 

So, once a week, I'm going to upload a new chapter. Please, let me know what you think as we go along together, and keep in mind that I love what I do and, thusly, am always looking for ways to improve.

So, here are the first 2 chapters. Feel free to be picky about grammar, Victorian voice, and Holmes' characterization.

Enjoy!!!


	2. I Am As Constant As the Northern Star

I Am As Constant As the Northern Star

* * *

On the eve of my second wedding, my good friend of many years asked me an odd question- _how do you do it?_ I had asked him to clarify, unaccustomed to hearing such a tone from him and feeling discomfited by the sudden switch of roles after twenty years of a routine relationship.

"How did you find another one? Did you not love your first wife?"

"You can love more than one person." I'd replied, surprised by the question. He knew how I had felt about my late wife, my first love.

"You can?" he murmured and then abruptly dropped the subject like a hot kettle. I brushed it off to his natural naivety when it came to all things about women and the softer emotions. It wouldn't be until twenty years later that I would discover the full import of his words. He died in 1922, peacefully, and passed all his belongings onto me, though my own age is creeping up on me and I feel they will not stay in my possession for very long.

It was amongst these effects that I discovered the truth about my friend, that aloof and confirmed bachelor I had known so well. In his square tin box, the one in which he stored all his important papers for safekeeping and the one which I had not been allowed to touch, I found an odd assortment of effects: an ivory comb, an old scrap of paper with the oblique statement: St. Patrick 10-66-66, a man's emerald ring, another ring that looked startlingly like a wedding band, and a book with old blood, dark and purple like drops of plum juice, dotted all over the soft leather cover. The book was an early copy of the Lewis' fairy-tale, probably worth a great deal if it had been in better condition. Inside there were stuffed a cluster of papers, not dusted with blood but soaked in it. The bottom of each page was dry and brittle to the touch.

I stared at it for a great length of time, shocked at what I was seeing. My friend had somehow gotten his hands on these things, which belonged to a woman of considerable fame (from her death, not her life), and the only way he could have come across them was thievery. I would not have been surprised at this, for he was not above such things when he felt it necessary, and as I read the manuscript I noted that nothing it contained would have aided the police, had it been handed over to them.

But what it did contain was certainly enlightening.


	3. Asses Are Made To Bear, and So Are You

Chapter 1: Asses Are Made To Bear, and So Are You

November 9, 1888:

I guess the most decorous way to start this account would be to tell you my name, as worthless as it is. I am Mary Kelly, and I am a woman of unfortunate circumstance in the Whitechapel district of London.

I cannot quite explain what has compelled me to take up my pen and write these words; not only to write them, but to spend my last coin on this paper, coin that would be wiser spent on food and a more pleasant smelling doss for the night.

Even though I realize that my experiences and life would not be of any interest to any respectable person, a permeating fear of the future has overtaken me and I cannot quite stop myself from writing these deeply personal and painful notes. As I write, I feel each jotted memory is moving me closer and closer to death. But it is just the seconds rushing by and, in truth, I am merely sailing on the flood of time with no oar or anchor. Yet I cannot help but feel a petty terror lately at my own shadow.

This could be owing to the fact that Saucy Jack has been making a pretty good ruckus here in my streets.

Four women of ill-repute have been slain so far, two of whom I knew personally and regarded as fine women, if not genteel, who led kind-hearted but dismal lives. But, then again, is not all life pathetic and futile? We reach. We grasp. And what is left in our hands at the end? A shadow. Or worse than a shadow - misery.

Maybe this is the reason that a silhouette of death has seemed to gather behind me and looms there during all my waking hours. Walking these filthy and fog-filled streets, I cannot rid myself of the feeling of stepping over my own grave.

That is why I felt the need to write these words, though I do not wish them to ever become public knowledge. Society as a whole has eschewed me and I regard it in the same harsh and perhaps unfair light as it regards me.

When I bought this paper it was actually with the full intent to write to _him_.

But I could not bring myself to do it. I could not risk the chance of disrupting his life. I will not be the one to remind him of the bitter past that he has successfully escaped to become that great man I knew he would be.

Even now as my pen flows, I do not wish to expose him or spread out parts of his life that are privately his. I am torn as to how to continue this tale. I will just let my pen decide for me, because I cannot bring myself to set it down now.

_"I have already forgiven you."_

It was in his nature to forgive but he had forgiven me for a crime I had not committed.

It was the first week in March, in the year 1875, when my mother and I were sacked from a small dress factory in East London. Being half-blind was apparently not conducive to sewing intricate beads on fine dresses for the London elite. Thus I found myself standing side-by-side with my inarticulate mother as she tried unsuccessfully to deny her handicap.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Kelly. Your work has been deteriorating as your eyesight has diminished and I cannot overlook it any longer."

My mother advanced pleadingly, almost running into the makeshift desk.

"There must be something else we could do?" she implored. Her black hair swung down her back as she curved her shoulder in humility, so different from the rich, penny red of my own curls.

Mrs. Hunter shook her head forlornly, "No, missus. We put together garments that we are proud of. A shaky hand is detrimental to our quality. There is nothing I can do for you here."

I stood behind my mother in the shadows of the moldy room, pressing my palms together until I could feel the pressure as tickling spider steps on my fingertips. Rows of run-down workers were lined up behind me, sewing monotonously. This was all too often the fate of many people in London, though most tried to ignore the actuality of a great mass of people slumming it merely to survive. Most preferred to wheedle the time away in their fancy houses and at their lavish balls, imbibing brandy and paying no mind to the plight that scourged the major population of the greatest city in the world.

The room smelled rank, filled with dried sweat and old breath.

"Where are we to go, Mrs. Hunter?" my mother asked, "I'm no longer capable of most work, and my daughter is too young for any . . . respectable job." My mother was not an old woman. An attractive woman of only four and thirty, her sight had started fading a few months ago, adding to our already thorny lot in life.

"You have been a superior worker, Ma'am, and I have taken your complicated situation into consideration. Actually, there is a fine family at North Riding, in Yorkshire near Whitby, which has recently lost their maidservant. I let them know that I may have two qualified applicants. They replied that they would take you on if you would have it."

"They lost their maid?" I couldn't keep the suspicion out of my voice as I finally spoke up.

"For heaven's sake, child, I do not mean to imply that they misplaced her. They had to let her go." She turned her head away from me, her thick spectacles catching a ray of the desk lamp and concealing her expression.

Within the hour we were on a train to the country with directives on how to get to the Wilson Manor. We were assured that there would be a ride for us when we disembarked.

Sitting back in the crowded box-car, I observed my mother's lean form as she sat across from me and fidgeted her knee impatiently. I marveled at how much had changed about her over the years since we left Ireland. She had been from a middle-class family before I was born. While not entirely privileged, she had a good future ahead of her depending on the path she chose to take.

Of course, true love is not so easily dismissed and far from practical. My father was a half-Jewish, half-Irish laborer who was well beneath my mother's station. But there would be no dissuading her after she had fallen prey to his darkly handsome looks and charming disposition.

Shortly after the wedding she found out the she was already with child and apparently did not see my father much once he acquired a second job to provide.

He passed away a few years after I was born, and I don't remember him much. I don't know what drove my mother to relocate here in London with her sister but it has been my home for as long as I can remember. It was also a blessing since we were able to remain in Aunt Irene's flat after she passed on. Finding respectable work was hard but with ethics and a business sense not often found in fair sex, my mother had succeeded. We were never well off; in fact, I cannot even imagine what being well off feels like. But we were healthy and we had our dignity.

I watched her now as she stared out of the dirty window. The outside scenery was a blur. I wondered if everything my mother saw was like that now, fuzzy and undecipherable. She had told me once that she wished I could see through her eyes.

I looked out at the passing blur of Whitby. The land was near the ports. I could see the ships in the distance, either ready for departure or still being built. The water in the distance glowed in the broad daylight like little pockets of white fire or sparking clusters of diamonds. The water always had a way of making me feel small. I knew there was a much larger world outside the window of Aunt Irene's deserted flat - a world that shone with a dusty radiance through our dirty windows. The world I dreamed of was full of estates and theaters and balls. But the water reminded me of a universe even vaster than that. I thought little of the shops of Paris, the museums of New York, the cathedrals of Italy until I looked out at the water and wondered what the boat deck would feel like under my feet as it sailed away.

"Mary, there are a few things I need you to keep in mind." My mum's strong voice cut through my straying thoughts. "You are to curtsy to all in the household and never refer to them by their Christian name. Use their titles at all times. Do not get too familiar, especially with the men of the house."

"Mother!"

My mum waved away my indignation, "Despite all innocence, Mary, maids are looked at distrustfully from the outset. There are things they have come to expect from the help and we mustn't live up to that in any respect. It is much easier to dismiss maids than explore the truth behind rumors." I fell quiet at this and she reached over and patted my hand, "Do not worry, my Mary, I trust your judgment in all things." She paused and then continued softly, "and Mary, I trust that you will tell me of any…impertinence towards you."

"Of course." The thought daunted me. Was that common? How was I to know when it was okay to disobey an order? I suppose it would be clear enough, though I admit my experience in that area was limited, thanks to my ever-conscious mother.

After we disembarked from the train it, we mounted a rickety cart and asked the driver to take us to our new employment. A petulant and quiet man, whose face reminded me of a emaciated pig, drove us to our destination. He seemed to have been waiting for us. My mother inquired as to whether he was the Wilson's permanent driver or if he were hired specifically to escort us, but she was met with a curt nod that did not answer the question at all. We were silent the rest of the way and I occupied myself with drawing flowers on the seat next to me with my forefinger and contemplating my mother's advice.

The scenery of Yorkshire was much different than what I was used to. The brown cloud that afflicted London was refreshingly lacking here and I had never seen so much grass. Whitechapel was all cobblestones and concrete, sullied and mired with things that were better not probed or pondered over.

It was a brief drive from the train station to the manor, perhaps only ten minutes, and when we arrived at the gates, we were met by a lovely woman of about five-and-forty years. Fair hair that looked like it would be unruly if it weren't for the meticulous care that was obviously invested in it, was swept expertly up into a classic and subtly intricate bun. Her dress was subdued but expensive and as she walked she lifted her hem to avoid getting the petticoat dirty. She smiled widely at us, her amber eyes crinkling around the corners like tiny seams.

"I know it is not customary for the lady of the house to come out to meet you but I want your first impression of us to be one of comfort," she huffed out as she reached us. Her voice was feathery but firm; it was a mother's voice.

She extended her hand to me but I was too disarmed to respond. It was highly unbecoming of me to speak to such a woman as an equal. After gaining some equilibrium, I curtsied, as my mother had advised, and tried not to look as if I were ignoring her outstretched arm. She stared at me for a bit before smirking in the most un-ladylike fashion and curtsying back.

"You must be Martha and Mary Kelly. I'm Mrs. Wilson."

I took the bags from my mother as Mrs. Wilson beckoned for us to follow her up the pathway to a large two-story house that, I have to concede, was not as large and imposing as I had imagined it to be. We traipsed up the porch steps and followed her into the house. The grounds were impressive, more so than the house, in fact, and possessed all the haunting aspects that were so characteristics of the inspirational moors that were in multitude. It was spring and the dew still cleaved to the grass rallying from the blanket of snow and frost that had swathed it a few months prior. The chill in the air was, to my perception, much balmier and bitingly refreshing than the murk in London. The soil of the unpaved driveway was still damp and clung to the sides of my boots as I marched through it, holding my bag high to avoid dirtying it.

Inside the house was large and breezy. High ceilings loomed overhead as I stepped into the foyer. Tall, vertical windows lined each wall; all looking out to the sprawling grounds that surrounded the residence. The windows to the north showed the distant trees magnificently; the view resembled something from an artist's hand more than a place in reality.

"I am sorry for the informality, but we have no servants as of now," Mrs. Wilson apologized and led us through the foyer to a large sitting-room that was obviously intended for receiving guests. The interior of the house was very unsettling. Full of color and sunny, there were still some corners that lurked in shadow, as if there were something that dwelled in the house, cowering in the corner away from the light of the windows.

Adding to this eerie feel that the house provoked was the strange and bewitching melody that was emanating from somewhere in the quarters, muffled by the walls. It was beguiling to me; somehow taking hold of half my mind as I tried to listen to the woman in front of me and take in my surroundings.

Standing in that vast foyer, listening to the haunting and doleful music wafting towards me, I was a little girl, standing in the rain, being told I had to leave my home. My mother's voice was strained, tear-filled, and her head tilted to mine, whispering words to me that I did not understand as the rain soaked through my thin dress and pooled on the cobblestone under my small feet.

I was startled out of my reverie by my mum who had taken a light hold of my elbow for support in this new and unfamiliar place. I patted her hand distractedly, trying to trace where the tune was coming from but I couldn't pinpoint it. The notes themselves added to the difficulty; choppy and varying between wild recklessness and calm sadness, they seemed to be besieging me from all different directions.

Mrs. Wilson took me gently by the arm, misconstruing my pleasure for irritation and patted my shoulder comfortingly. "Do not worry sweetie, if you ever have short patience with him twiddling on that cursed thing, just tell me and I'll put a stop to it."

I started to correct her, to tell her that it did not bother me in the least, but bit my tongue. "Who exactly is this 'he' you speak of, Ma'am?"

Her face seemed to open up as she responded, "My eldest at home; he loves that thing. Sentimental value, I think." She winked at me privately. "Although he would die before he would admit it."

I nodded affirmatively, feigning an understanding of what she meant.

She made us sit as she left the room in a pirouette of petticoats and smiles to gather the family to meet us. I leaned into my mother as we sat, whispering in her ear to be heard over the music, "They have no other servants. Is that not out of the ordinary?"

My mum pushed back a wayward strand of hair from her forehead and frowned. "The problem with out-of-the-ordinary things is that it is very hard to figure if they are good or bad." She rested her head on the cushion and closed her eyes after that ambiguous statement.

I huffed at her.

I situated back against the cushion and turned my attention to the music. The disjointed beat was softened but frenzied and I felt small stabs of anxiety in my chest with each pulse. I had never heard music like this before. Aunt Irene use to play an old piano she had salvaged but its tune was nothing like this. I never knew that the violin so closely resembled the howling of a human voice. The wailing grew in length, lingering plaintively on the high notes and then turbulently dipping and soaring; swelling and crying. If the playing was any indication of the violinist' mood, than he was having severely shifting emotions. The tune suddenly switched to a fleeting repetition of the same chord, growing in pitch as if moving to some grand apex. Something inside me rose in unison, taken hold of my heart and when the final chord was struck and completed, the music released me and I let out a shaky breath that I hadn't even realized I had been holding as the air grew awkwardly silent.

My mother touched my arm. "Mary? Are you okay dear?"

I tried to clear my thoughts, "Yes . . . why would I not be?" I rubbed my head and noticed my hands were trembling.

"I heard you gasp. I was worried that you might be having another of your . . . attacks."

I shifted uncomfortably. It bothered me to hear her speak of my occasional spells. I never remember any of it after they had passed; I would simply open my eyes to see my mum's aged and worried face hovering above me. She once told me that I jerked around like a woman possessed. I commanded her never to mention it to anyone.

I frowned at her and then shook my head dismissively, "I was just listening to the music, mum."

"Yes," she murmured, "it was beautiful was it not?"

I "mmmmed" in response just as Mrs. Wilson was returning with more in tow. An older gent who I could only assume was the man of the house, followed close behind with the most disagreeable scowl on his face. As they strode into the room and positioned themselves on the couch opposite us, a young girl and boy appeared in the doorway. The girl moved forward swiftly and settled on the chair closest to me. The boy stood silhouetted in the doorway, veiled by the shadows. I could see that he was very tall, over six feet at least, strapping but lean in figure. His hair was dark enough to blend into the shadows around him and his facial features were lost to me. My gaze traveled down his arm and I noticed that he held a violin, the hue of heavy and thick blood.

"Oh," I spoke up, "was it you playing a moment ago?"

I was answered with a brusque nod. I nodded back, confused by the rudeness of his manner.

Mrs. Wilson waved in his direction, "You have to excuse him. Proper social behavior is sometimes lost to him." She introduced us to him as her son and, to my surprise, he bowed respectfully.

"Please dear, come in here and have a seat. And fix your hair," his mother murmured softly to him. My attention was pulled away before I could see whether he complied with her orders or not.

An elegant hand was reached out to me from my side. The young girl now smiled and introduced herself. "My name is Mary-Jane but everyone calls me Jane, which is good now that you are here because we might get confused." I shook her hand, watching as her dark brown eyes narrowed in a the imitation of a smile. She did not like me. I could tell already.

But I smiled back. I felt the boy move behind the couch to take a seat on the opposite side of the room. I kept myself from watching him. Jane observed me closely, though I knew not why.

Before we could properly be introduced to the lord and master of the house, the older man uttered an irritated scoff in his wife's direction and vacated the couch. "I do not have time for this, Connie. There are better things I could be doing than being formally introduced to the new maids." With that bad-mannered remark, he left the room and we sat in stunned silence for a moment.

"So, would you like to tell us a little about ourselves?" Mrs. Wilson finally asked, ignoring the awkwardness that her husband had left in his wake.

My mother and Mrs. Wilson chatted amiably for a moment, the commonalities between them transiently overriding the differences in their class. I tuned them out a bit, distracted by the scrutinizing that I was being subjected to by the daughter.

It was then that I felt someone staring at me. Turning my head to the side, I caught the eye of the silent occupant of the room. He was looking intently at me, as though I were the only arresting thing in this infinitely dull situation. Sitting in the light from the bay window, he was prominently visible and I was struck by his appearance. Hair, of the same dark black of my mother's mourning dress, fell in strands over his eyes and the same dark color stained his long eyelashes. His nose was Romanesque and strong, a perfect balance with his wide mouth. The aspect that caught my attention the most, however, was that in the midst of this black landscape of hair, were the most remarkably large, inky eyes I had ever seen - I could almost imagine an artist lining and coloring his eyes with a fine pointed pen.

But the most striking thing of all was the detachment I saw on his face. There was no heat - something I was accustomed to in White chapel - but also no coldness. There was merely, what I can only describe as, _un_emotion. His gaze was unwavering and I looked away, trying to dispel the feeling that he was peering right through me.

I clasped my hands in my lap in hopes that no one would notice the trembling of my fingers.

When I glanced back, he had quirked a dark eyebrow at me. In his suddenly expressive face, I could see a sort of commiserating but amused embarrassment for how uncomfortable I appeared.

Mrs. Wilson was addressing me.

"Ms. Kelly?"

"Mary. You can call me Mary," I spluttered, trying to cover over my distraction.

"Very well. Mary . . . Sundays will be your day off, which will work out well since that is our usual day to go to our weekly religious services." She turned her attention to my mother also, "Today you can settle in and become familiar with the house."

Jane offered to show us around the grounds and we were instructed to follow her. The young man lent my mother his arm in the usual gentlemanly fashion as we exited the living-room. There was something about the way he guided her though, that made me worry that he was quite aware that he was steering her around things.

When we reached the foyer, he, in a tone that could only be considered ordering, directed his sister to take my mum's arm.

Either the children in this house had been taught very good manners about respect for their elders, or Jane was simply in the habit of obeying everything her brother requested of her, for she automatically took hold of my mum with no question.

He and his violin vanished back down the hall.


	4. Nothing Can Come From Nothing

**Chapter 2: Nothing Can Come From Nothing**



Within five minutes of my tour with Jane, I became aware of her insistent need to be the center of attention. She was nice in a feigned manner, clutching onto your arm constantly and whispering into your ear as if you were her longest childhood friend. I ignored it the best I could and took in the house. I got the distinct feeling that Jane was leery of me or perhaps insecure about the sudden appearance of a girl her own age.

We were shown the laundry-room and how to carry the coal for the house, a task that my mother and I would have to do together. We were also shown where to hang the laundry and the layout of the kitchen. I nodded the whole time, trusting my mother to know what to do because I was not used to this kind of work.

She then led us around the rest of the house. It was two-story with a staircase on the right side of the foyer that led to all the family bedrooms. The ground level held a small-sitting room in the back, the servant's (now to be mine and my mum's) quarters, the main-room and a small ball-room and a large kitchen. The style of the house was magnificently beautiful in the way it was arranged. There was an allusion of spaciousness, even in the rooms that were smaller, due to the light colors and large windows. The upholstery was a perfect parity of plenty of white and cream colored patterns, set off every once in a while by the richest red or purple silk. The curtains were white and thin, giving each room an unimposing feel. All the furniture was of the deepest and smoothest mahogany, which made me demur to touch it.

Even having only known Mrs. Wilson for a few moments, I had no doubt in my mind that it was her decorating skill on display. There was an elegant beauty about it that reminded me of her.

I was led through a quick, rambling, and sometimes incomprehensible list of my duties as my mum and I were led out the back. We stood on a large porch that held a swinging bench and looked out at the grounds. There was a large patch of clearing and a trail that led into the trees. A half-finished gate was the only barrier between the house and the foliage and a young man stood by one of the posts, looking at it dejectedly.

Jane gripped my arm and smiled, "Oh, that's James. He is father's gamekeeper." She started to lead us down the steps, intent that we meet him. "He also does odd jobs around the grounds when we allow he is capable. Though, that fence has been half-standing for way too many months." He shielded his eyes as we neared and Jane called out his name. He watched us approach.

Jane leaned into my ear, "We've never had a maid as handsome as you, and hopefully you will not cause us any trouble."

I jerked away from her, insulted by the insinuating tone in her voice. I did not much care for the idea that she felt she had to warn me, as if I had to control myself from my natural inclination, which, no doubt, was much more shameful than her own.

I bit my tongue and declined to comment either way on her remark. We continued down the path, and I hoped that my mother had not heard our exchange. Reaching the gamekeeper, I was able to observe him close up. He was fine-looking; blonde with cocoa colored eyes that crinkled around the sides when he smiled at me. Dressed in outdoor clothes, he had a rugged appearance that was appealing.

His eyes locked onto me as we shook hands and did not leave my face as he was introduced to my mum.

"So have you started your duties yet, or have you been given a moment or two to get used to all the oddities of the house?" He was smiling in that way that men do when they want you to think they are charming.

"I would not know so much about that. Everyone seems perfectly nice so far." I demurred, made nervous by his obvious interest in me.

He laughed over my head at Jane and she giggled back. "You are very polite. That is an attractive quality in a young woman." I tried to ignore the vaguely smug look that settled on the young miss' face, as if I had asked for the attention.

I clamped my mouth shut and my mother spoke up. "It is a very desirable quality, young man, especially in the hired help." She may have been half-blind, but she was no fool, she knew he was attempting to engage me.

"Well," Jane started to pull me away, either out of duty or jealousy, I could not tell, "we must be going back in now. It is getting dark soon and they must be very tired from their train ride." James bowed slightly to her but kept his eyes on me.

"By the way," he finally tore that warm gaze from me and regarded Jane, "I am having a dreadful time with this fence. I keep hitting hard soil. Perhaps your father could look into finding someone who could help me decipher where these patches are?"

Jane shook her head dismissively, all the while turning both of us around to depart. "Just ask my brother. You know he could help you."

"He would not mind?"

Jane turned her back to him as she shrugged and we made our way back to the house.



That night, I lay awake in the small bed next to my mother. Our room was small, as was typical for the servants quarters, but not pressingly so, and there was a small window through which I could watch the stars at night.

My mother's steady breathing let me know that she was sleeping soundly. I tried to will myself to sleep but was too involved in my train of thought to derail it even though I wished to.

I wondered about my new employers. They were a strange lot, but that was not necessarily a bad thing in my opinion. As long as I stayed uninvolved with things, a little oddity made for a much more interesting time.

My thoughts though, kept returning to the handsome gamekeeper I had met. I'd never had a young man pay such true attention to me before. It was an unusual feeling, this appreciation of interest. I had never considered it a blessing before, when men stared. But something about James was genuine, congenial. I knew I had to be careful to appear upstanding, or else cause myself, or my mother, shame.

But he was most handsome.

Both the young men I had met were strikingly attractive. James was quick to smile though, where the other young man had been aloof.

"What are you thinking about?" My mother's tired voice broke me out of my disgustingly feminine thoughts.

"Nothing. I thought you were sleeping."

"I was, but I could feel you smiling."

Had I been?

I did not respond, finding it hard to believe that I could really wake her by smiling.

"Are you thinking about that young man?" She continued.

"Which one?"

She shifted, "The boy we met outside. He seemed awfully attentive to you."

"You could see that?" I smiled at my own choice of words.

"No," she hmmphed, "I could feel it. You should be careful."

"Why?"

"Men are not as innocent as they seem sometimes, Mary. I do not want you to have to learn that the hard way. Though, I do suppose his attention is preferable than that of the master."

I thought of Mr. Wilson and shuddered, hoping I never received any attention from him of any sort. "Mr. Wilson seems hardly the sort to be congenial to anyone. And James is just the gamekeeper. Am I not allowed to receive attention even from him?"

"Attention is quite alright as long as it is appropriate."

"Mum, you know I would never do anything inappropriate. I have only just now made his acquaintance; are you not getting a little ahead of yourself?"

She was still for a great while before she kissed me on the forehead like a child and fell back to sleep.


	5. We Should Be Woo'd

**Chapter 3: We Should Be Woo'd**



"You have to keep stirring so that the linens don't bunch together."

I wiped a sticky piece of hair from my face and grabbed the stick, pushing the week's laundry around the steamy water and trying to endure the pain in my arms. "How do you know so much about this mum?" I panted, blinking against the condensation rising into my face.

"What do you think I did those few months before I realized I was going to give birth to you? Your father's factory work was hardly enough to even provide food." She bustled around the room, seemingly at home here in this place that was so alien to me.

We had woken before dawn to start our daily work, though I have to confess that I was more than a little resistant to the idea of rolling out of bed before it was even light outside. I'm quite certain that I would not have even lasted through the morning if not for my mum. I hadn't realized how hard these tasks would be and I was thankful when we finally ventured out to the yard to hang the laundry. It was not a difficult task, though I occasionally had to rest my arms, which were unaccustomed to such manual labor. I had never considered myself spoiled before, but I was beginning to wonder if my mother hadn't shielded me from the realities of life more than most mothers in Whitechapel.

I was shown how to hang the linens so that they would not wrinkle, latching each side of the sheets to each other and flattening them against the early morning sun. My mother left me to finish the job as she went to start breakfast.

"Do you think you can handle it?" I called out after her retreating form, weaving in and out of the billowing linens.

"Just because I can no longer embroider does not mean I cannot handle food." She hollered over her shoulder, a faint trace of amusement trickling through her clear-cut voice.

I watched her go and wondered if she were really as sure of herself as she seemed. I resumed my task - if she burned down the house then I guess we'd have to find another job. Though I am not sure how happy the household would be with us. I smiled at the thought.

As I was clipping a corner of a sheet, I caught sight of a silhouette through the thin fabric. I peered around the laundry. James stood watching me, his hands clasped behind his back and a loosely patronizing smile on his lively face.

"Hello."

"Hello." I stared awkwardly at him and he took a few steps towards me.

"You looked like you were daydreaming." He commented, which led me to wonder how long he'd been standing there.

I tugged on a sheet, nervous for something to do with my hands. "Merely trying to absorb everything around me. I've never done this sort of work before."

He looked surprised and advanced to stand in front of me. "I'm sure you'll do fine. Mrs. Wilson is a wonderful woman. If I were you, I'd ingratiate myself to her. What did you do before you came here?"

I played with the edge of the laundry and he watched, making me even more self-conscious. "We were seamstresses." I glanced around; worried that someone may misconstrue our conduct. James peered in the direction of the house and then stepped behind the sheet I was hanging, concealing himself from any person who may chance to look outside.

I don't know if that made me trust him more or less.

"That's a far cry from the rigors of this life. But it means you have an eye for detail and that's a fine thing to have in any line of work."

"Your show of confidence in my abilities is comforting." I stated but I don't think he caught the irony of it. He chuckled and a silence settled over us as I hung my last sheet. As I was gathering my baskets he asked to see me again.

"I'm sure you'll see me quite often." I laughed off.

He frowned and then bowed, smiling at me good-naturedly. "Well then, until we happen to meet again, have a pleasant day, miss." He tipped his hat at me and sauntered off.

I watched him go, fiddling with the wicker of my basket.

I deposited my things inside the entrance of the servant's entrance and made my way to the front of the house to see if my mother needed any help serving breakfast. The family was already seated and eating and my mother stood at the sink, soaking the cooking utensils and staying close by in case she was needed. I stole silently over to her, trying not to disturb those breakfasting and began cleaning off the dishes.

Mr. Wilson was immersed in the daily paper while the women gabbed about something I paid no mind to. The young son pushed his food around listlessly and appeared to have no interest in either the women or in starting a conversation with his father. When Jane absently moved her plate away from her place, I went to retrieve it. The son nodded at me and lifted his plate. I went to take it from him, avoiding eye contact with him, though I'm not sure why. I could feel him watching me as I wiped off the plates and let them sink into the wash to keep the other dirty dishes company. When I turned back around to see if the master or missus of the house were finished with their meal, the young man was lighting a cigarette with a match.

"I told you not to smoke in here." Mr. Wilson did not even bother to look up while reprimanding his son. The boy inhaled once, letting forth a long stream of blue smoke towards his father before standing and going out back through the porch door. He did not excuse himself and no one mentioned his retreat, though a silence fell over the table for an uncomfortable minute.

I reached for the missus's plate, "Are you finished, ma'am?"

"Perhaps you should wait for her to let you know when she is finished." Jane's voice was icy and accusatory. I faltered with my arm stretched over the table, frozen in mid-air. Mrs. Wilson waved her hand away dismissively and gave me a forgiving look.

"I'm quite finished, thank you, Mary."


	6. When Beggars Die, There Are No Comets

**Chapter 4: When Beggars Die, There Are No Comets**



My mum let me handle the afternoon tea, which was not a particularly hard task. I knocked on the missus' door, waiting patiently as I heard rustling on the other side. The door swung open and Mrs. Wilson ushered me in with a wide smile, her hair perfectly coiffed and round pearls hanging about her aristocratic neck.

"Oh my, is it tea time already?' She took the tray from my hands and slid it onto her desk. She took a dainty sip and made the appropriate noises of appreciation. "Very good, Mary." She sat at her vanity and regarded me. My mum had told me stay until I was dismissed. "How has your day been, Mary?

"Just fine, ma'am." She gave me a knowing look.

"Well, honestly," I admitted, "it's been a little difficult but I can manage."

"I can see your hands have suffered." I looked down at the offending things, wrinkled and red from the hot water of the laundry.

"Come over here." She ordered.

I obliged and she took my hands in her own, applying a creamy and pleasant smelling lotion from a jar upon her vanity. "That should help; you're much too pretty to ruin your hands in this work." I smiled like a child as she rubbed in the serum, feeling foolish and special at the same time.

I buoyed down the stairs on a cloud of delicate vanilla to retrieve Jane's tray and then made my way back up to her room. I needed to discover an easier way to accomplish this, without making four trips up and down the stairs. I passed the son's room and slowed without thinking. I had not been able to locate him since the incident at the breakfast table and had left his tray on the counter until he decided to make himself known.

I hurried to Jane's door and knocked softly. She permitted me entrance in a tone that could only be called ringing and I hefted the tray onto one arm to turn the door-handle. I entered her airy and open room to find her seated at her writing-desk, pen and diary in hand. She placed them gingerly down and folded her hands in her lap. She sat with her back to the large bay window and in the midst of the sunlight all I could see was her outline and the loose curls of her hair falling down stylishly around her face.

"You are late." It was a polite voice, but an accusation was branded through it.

"Yes, I underestimated the amount of time it takes to assemble four tea-trays." I smiled in a soothing manner, "It will not happen again."

She laughed and rose, "No worries, I did not suffer much in my wait. I will overlook it, considering I haven't had a good cup of tea since we had to let go of the maid over a fortnight ago."

I smiled as I set the tea-pot on the table next to her settee. "Why did you have to let her go?" I inquired, trying not to sound too interested. The last thing I needed to do was make a name for myself as a busybody.

"She developed a condition."

"A condition?"

"A delicate condition. We couldn't have such a person running about our house. I hope nothing like that occurs ever again." I was quick enough to catch her condescending tone and decided to ignore it.

"Who was the father?"

"Who's to know? She tried to stake a claim on a gentleman a little south of here, but I'm not totally convinced she was even sure of the father's identity. Really, wouldn't have mattered anyway, as if a gentleman could be bothered to support her over such a trifling matter. She threw herself into one of the waterfalls a few miles from here."

She sat delicately and took a small bite of the scone with clotted cream and jam. Despite her careless tone, I knew she was right. I thought of all the poor women I'd encountered in Whitechapel with an infant attached to their hip, no man in sight. I wondered how many of those young children were the offspring of gentlemen, discarded and left to fend for themselves.

I tried to stifle the tremor of violent emotion that went through me at the thought of the girl's fate and watched her take a few dainty nibbles. I stood with my hands clasped, respectfully waiting to see if anything was to her displeasure.

She nodded at me while chewing, gesturing that it was very good. She then took a sip of her tea to wash it down. She scrunched up her face in distaste.

"This is very bad tea Mary."

I opened my mouth as she set the cup down and continued to make a contorted facial expression.

"I am very sorry miss. What exactly is the matter?"

She stood and walked back to her desk, dismissing my arrangement of food. "It is dreadful. You must bring it back tasting like real tea." I stepped forward to pick up the tray, not so sure how to do as she asked since I was not aware of what she disliked about it.

"You must forgive me." I stammered.

She looked in the vanity mirror and patted her hair, "No matter. I will give leeway since you are not a lady."

"I beg your pardon?" The insult was stinging.

"I realize that your caste is not known for good tea…or manners. I realize I must give you time to adjust yourself to our more proper society."

I felt a warm blush of rage flare up on my face, but managed to keep my head. It was difficult for me; years in Whitechapel had sharpened my tongue and emboldened me in a way not fitting for this setting. To survive there one must be willing to scratch and fight, but to survive here one must be willing to bite their tongue. "I will go fix this at once, miss." This was all I said.

I slammed downstairs furiously, my booted feet thumping against the carpeted steps. I hefted the still full serving dish and mumbled to myself as I entered the kitchen. I slid the tray onto the counter and stood there, pressing my hand to my forehead in hopes of heading off the incoming headache, cursing to myself in Gaelic.

I poured some more milk into her cup, at a loss as to what else to do, and hefted the tray once more. I turned around and slammed the edge of it firmly into the middle of a broad chest. My victim didn't move or seem to react at all to the hard corner I had just jammed into him but I jumped back and wobbled, the tray slipping precariously out of my hands. He snatched it in time, lifting it above my head without effort.

"'Ello." He greeted as the tray swung high above my range of sight and his grey eyes smirked at me.

"Why were you standing right behind me?" I asked as he settled the saved item back onto the counter. The breathlessness of my reply softened the sound of the irritation I was feeling, thankfully.

He continued to smile at me as he went to lean against the table. He wore no jacket, just his shirtsleeves, and no tie about his neck. He crossed his ankles and stared at me. "Sorry, did not mean to startle you."

I bit back an impertinent reply and thought of the best way to answer. "Quite alright, sir." I turned back to begin fiddling with the cups merely to occupy my hands. I knew he was still there. I gestured to his tray, which still lay on the counter. "Would you like your tea?"

He shook his head and rolled a cigarette, moistening it with his thin, heart-shaped lips. "No thank you." He smoked for a bit before addressing me again. "I saw you conversing with James outside."

"We were not conversing, he was merely passing by." I lied, hoping he wasn't observant enough to see through me.

"There's nothing wrong with conversing, miss. But I would tread carefully around my stepsister. Do not give her anything to use against you." He advised bluntly.

"Why would she want to use anything against me?"

A vaguely sympathetic look passed across his dark features before he answered, "Jane likes to have something to use against everyone. You might as well know that now so that you can guard yourself." It was the most I'd heard him say; his accent was an odd mix of erudite English and something else I couldn't put my finger on.

"I thank you for your concern." I paused for a moment, "Jane is your stepsister?"

"That's right. Dear Mr. Wilson is not my real father and doesn't wish to be, which is quite alright with me, and darling Jane is not my sister, as unfortunate as that is." He gave me a conspiratorial wink. He stubbed out his cigarette and strode towards me. "I would also advise that you keep any other secrets about you, or your mum, quite close to the vest."

"You know my mother . . . cannot see well?" I was startled by my own pluck.

"Yes." His voice held no sympathy.

"It is not serious," I rushed to tell him, "She is quite capable and whatever she cannot do, I can handle. You will not tell your mother or father will you?"

He shrugged, grinning, "It matters not to me."

"You will not tell?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because it does not really matter to me whether our furniture is free from dust or whether my step-sister's tea is to her liking."

"But you are my employer."

He shook his head happily, "No I am not, thankfully. You are paid from my stepfather's pocket which I have no claim to so I am free from the burden of examining your work."

He inhaled deeply on his cigarette and then continued jovially, "So my dear lady, I, in no way, am responsible for you or the quality of your performance and could care less how well you do your job. I guess it would be my duty as the nice good son that I am, to inform my mother or father if your skills were lacking but I do not desire to get involved in . . .well, anything that they do."

"Thank you." I choked out, surprised by the mood he was in which was so different from the morose and quiet boy I had met yesterday. He stood next to me and looked down into my face. He was rather over six feet tall and the top of my head only reached to his chest.

"Your secret is safe with me, I assure you." He pledged.

His proximity was unnerving. He seemed to read my thoughts and leaned away from me. Giving me a quick once-over, he then blessed me with a lightning-fast and stunningly charming smile that almost knocked me over. Taking a step back, he stole a biscuit from next to his unwanted cup and gestured to his tray.

"You can take this for yourself if you wish."

"But I do not think I'm allowed."

"You are allowed if I say you are." An authoritative tone seeped into his voice. I stood stupidly, not sure what I was supposed to do.

He graced me with a humorless smirk but that captivating smile I had been privy to was well hidden. He sauntered off towards the hall.

"Pardon sir, but may I ask you something?"

He turned to face me with one dark eyebrow raised, sliding his hands nonchalantly into his pockets.

"How did you know my mum was losing her sight?"

He shrugged in explanation and began to turn from me. "By the way," he stopped, "Jane does not like much milk in her tea - it is a bit too Irish for her taste."

He wandered off.


	7. My Words Fly Up, My Thoughts Remain

**Chapter 5: My Words Fly Up, My Thoughts Remain.**  


In the few weeks that followed, I managed to establish a routine that was conducive to my need to do as much work as possible and still avoid any unpleasant encounters with certain members of the family.

I also received ample time to observe my new surrounding (and its occupants) now that everyone had acclimated themselves to my presence. I had discovered, firstly, the ages of the two children of the house (I'm being liberal with that term). Their respective ages were twenty, and five-and-ten, Jane of course being the youngest, but older than me as she pointed out at every opportunity.

James was the simplest one to figure. He was kind-hearted and, I discovered, very shy - a trait he tried to cover over by being witty. He'd pop up as I went about my tasks, but I kept him at a distance. He would not be deterred, however, and I grew used to his presence, perhaps even fond of it. He was not a well-read man, nor did he seem to have much appreciation for art or books. He liked the open air and walking. Something in his manner towards me was flattering, but I couldn't help but feel as if he thought he were doing me a favor in some way with his interest. It wasn't a pleasant thought, though I tried to convince myself that it was just my imagination.

Mrs. Wilson was a strange woman. The comfortableness I had felt with her in those first few moments of meeting her had not dissipated, but neither had the feeling of apprehension. She had secrets in her that were covered with smiles and hugs, but I could see through her. She went riding a great deal and was patronizingly kind to her husband, which was an accomplishment, in my opinion, seeing as all he was capable of doing was barking orders and generally put everything and everyone around him down. I was quite thankful to discover that he spent most of his time in his room, reading or assembling and disassembling his hunting-rifle.

Now Jane, (dear, darling Jane) was well-beyond the spoiled-child I had imagined her to be when we first made acquaintance. As I said before, she was utterly beautiful but infinitely dull in some unexplainable way; fact, which, she tried to overcome by being over-confident. Snide remarks were a staple of our interchange now, as she seemed to find me some sort of threat to her place in the house. I was soon to find out that she had a courtier, Quentin, a completely disagreeable young man, and she would fawn over him in the most wildly indecent manner when she thought no one was looking.

None of this compared, however, to the way she treated her own stepbrother. Running a hand through his hair at the breakfast table or leaning into him with her bosom spilling over her neckline was not above her and seemed to pass unnoticed by her parents.

Nothing could surpass the scene I had inadvertently witnessed during my third evening after supper. Making my way to my mistress's bedchamber to help her brush her hair, I came across Jane in the shadows, whispering to her brother. At first I assumed they were having a meaningful and private discussion so I stepped back to avoid eavesdropping. Neither of them saw me and, during this assumed privacy, I beheld the five-and-ten year old lady drape herself across her brother's chest and begin purring in his ear. His face tautened with irritation and, after an especially unsuitable statement whispered in his ear, he picked her up under the underarms and dropped her at arm's length.

He slipped his hands into his pockets in that nonchalant way of his and disappeared in the direction of his bedchamber. I saw Jane's face as she sulked away in defeat and couldn't help but notice the almost delighted twinkle in her eye, as if everything were a large game. Neither of them ever saw me.

The object of her secret affection himself was a complicated man. Sometimes a most black reaction would come over him and he wouldn't move or speak for great periods of time. What caused this great depression remained a mystery to me. I started to see the signs however. His gait would be slower during this lull and the violin strains coming from his bed-chamber or sitting room where he experimented often with chemicals would be melancholy and soaring in their sadness.

He was accustomed to getting up late and then took to wandering around the kitchen in his dressing-gown or just his shirt-sleeves; both of which were not entirely appropriate around the fair-sex. Propriety and manners were not his strong-suit, however. This was a fact not missed by his parents, who often cast a silent but disapproving eye in his direction. Not that he was in any way uncouth or ungentlemanly, although he was very untidy. His looks were striking but his voice caught my attention as well; a strange blend of melody and stridency, it was hard to ignore and I could focus on it easily even if he were speaking in another room. His accent was not like any of the others, but I, despite my efforts, I could not decide what it was that was mixing with his English intonation, except, assuredly, to say that it was not Irish.

I also noticed quite early on that his main fondness seemed to be for sweets, and although he was sparse in his partaking of any other food, he would conveniently drift into the kitchen at times when I was baking. I took it upon myself to add more sugar to his tea and allowed him to confiscate as many biscuits and pastries as he liked. He also took to tasting the jams that my mother and I stored in jars, without seeming to notice that it was impolite. My mother didn't mind, though, and I suspect she found it particularly charming in her own maternal way.  
His relationship with his own mother was inscrutable. They seemed to get on well, and I knew he cared for her greatly. I would often catch him holding her hand and she was the habit of gently running her fingertips reassuringly up and down his back. At the same time, however, there was an almost tangible strain between them, maybe even an apprehension; an unease that caused them to scrutinize each other out of the corner of their eyes and avoid each other's gazes at the dinner table.

There was nothing subtle, in contrast, about his dealings with his stepfather. Mr. Wilson was an unmanageable man and seemed to be under the impression that his stepson was in constant need of a good dressing-down. More than once I had been privy to arguments that left the usually self-assured younger man stammering for words and clenching his jaw in anger. It was dreadful to watch, but yet it was impossible to turn away.

I, for my part, had not engaged him in any conversation besides kitchen matters since that first day. We had our second encounter in the third week of my employment, when I chanced into the sitting-room to do some mending and came across the boy himself, sprawled out upon the divan, engrossed in reading.

"Oh, I'm sorry." I apologized, turning hastily to leave.

"Is there something you need, miss?" He gazed at me over the top of his leather bound book, his voice laced with a tired curiosity. All the windows were open in the room, allowing a soft wind to ruffle through the thin curtains. He looked settled in his reading and I hated to intrude upon his peace.

"I was to do some mending but I'll go elsewhere." I stepped back, not wanting to give him my back.

"You can sit in here if you'd like." He commented languidly, "It is a sitting-room after all; there isn't anything wrong with sitting in it." Behind that ironic tone, I got the distinct impression that he was laughing at me. A gust of wind from the open doors sent a lock of crimson hair into my eyes. His gaze followed my hand as I pushed it away.

"I don't wish to disturb you."

"I assure you that you won't."

I ventured into the room, trying to appear sure of myself. "Very well." I settled into the soft, violet cushion of the chair and threaded my needle. We sat in silence for a bit as I worked my needle through the fabric.

He turned a page and then waited a beat; just long enough to let me know he hadn't begun reading again.

"Do you read Mary?" He twisted his head to look at me, giving me an oddly sincere look, "May I call you Mary?" He rolled the "r" in my name softly, giving it a sound that was much more . . . Scottish? Yes, perhaps. It reminded me a bit of how my mum said my name; warm and lilting. My own accent was subtle, but it still gave me away. I was ashamed to admit that I'd trained myself to hide it.

"Of course, you needn't ask permission."

"Why not?" He looked annoyed but it didn't seem to be directed at me, "It's your name, isn't it? Shouldn't you get to decide who's allowed to use it?" I didn't respond and he fell quiet for a moment again before repeating his first question nonchalantly, most of his attention redirected to his book, "So, do you read?" None of his other sounds rolled. How odd.

"Yes."

"How did you learn?"

"My mother was . . ." I clapped my mouth shut, wondering how to answer without appearing as if I were talking too much.

He raised his dark eyebrows but didn't move his eyes from the pages of his book, "It's very impolite to trail off, Mary. Your mother was . . . ?"

"My mother was not always of the station she is now." I offered by way of explanation.

"I knew that."

"You did?"

His smirk grew, and he looked self-satisfied to the point of arrogance, "Of course, it's obvious."

"Oh . . . yes, it is." I agreed, trying not to appear so dense as to not see what he saw. His grey eyes flickered over my face for a minute, amused, before settling back onto his book.

"So . . . do you like poetry?"

The only books I had ever read were children's books, which I devoured. Poetry and literature was not a staple among the throngs in the East End of London, and were among the few things I envied the higher classes for. "Yes. But I can't afford . . ." I trailed off. I had wanted to justify my ignorance, which was sure to be exposed, but realized how pitiable my words would sound.

He fingered the page he was turned to, ignoring my falter, and then read to me smoothly:

"'The angels, not half so happy in heaven,  
Went envying her and me  
Yes! That was the reason  
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,  
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.  
But our love it was stronger by far than the love  
Of those who were older than we  
Of many far wiser than we  
And neither the angels in heaven above,  
Nor the demons down under the sea,  
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul  
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee  
For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams  
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;  
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes  
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;  
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side  
Of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride'-  
Beautiful, isn't it?"

I sewed a few more stitches while conjuring up something suitable to say. "It's sad." It wasn't very eloquent, but it was true.

He laughed, "C'est vrai. All great works are sad."

"There are no . . . happy poems?" I inquired.

He was silent for so long that I thought I had upset him into ignoring me. Finally, he twisted his head to look at me again and this time I knew he was laughing at me. "You want to hear something happy?"

"Yes."

He flipped through some pages, "Would you like to hear 'The Raven'?"

"What is that?"

"It's a poem." He riposted, slightly patronizingly.

"Will I like it?" I asked wearily, slightly worried by the mischievous look that I saw on his face.

"Of course."


	8. Oh What Men Dare Do!

**Chapter 6: Oh, What Men Dare Do!**  


Mrs. Wilson left a few days later to one of her frequent trips to the eminent shopping centers of Paris. Mr. Wilson had gone off on a weekend hunting excursion, not that anybody particularly missed him.

My morning was occupied by controlling vermin, which Mrs. Wilson was convinced were going to overrun her kitchen until the floor was a living carpet of roaches, black beetles and even crickets. I filled in all holes with cement; cleaned everything with water filled with carbolic acid and poured more carbolic acid through the cracks in the floor. Any creature determined to crawl through into the house was now taking its life into its own hands. Just for good measure, I allowed the stray cat that roamed the grounds into the kitchen to root around for mice. By the time the Mrs. Wilson returned the next afternoon, her house would be absolutely free from critters of any sort.

My mother had put a roast on to bake the Saturday before her return. With the house fairly empty, the meal was to be less formal affair with only Jane and the young master in attendance. Unfortunately, Jane's beau had come for tea, and between cutting the vegetables and basting the roast, I had to serve them as the cavorted with each other in the drawing room.

I hadn't seen the young master all day, even when I had tried to knock on his door for his afternoon tea, I was completely ignored. I wouldn't force him to eat, so I let him be.

As to the occupants of the drawing room, I did not care for Quentin Finch, he tried valiantly to look down my dress as I poured his tea for him and I wasn't sure, but I suspected he had brushed his hand across my backside when Jane wasn't looking.

I fumed in silence though, applying myself to my cutting tasks and trying not to think of it. I had just finished dicing an onion when I turned to see the bane of my existence (at least, presently) watching me.

I curtsied, "Mr. Finch."

"I don't mean to be a bother, but could I trouble you for a scotch?"

I highly doubted alcohol would make him any more pleasant. I obliged and pulled the bottle from under the cupboard, "Would you like it warm, sir?"

He smiled brusquely at me, his dark eyes and hair fetching yet disagreeable in my opinion. "Whichever tastes better?"

I poured a bit into the glass and confessed, "I don't really know the answer to that, sir."

"You're Irish, are you not?" He laughed. I set the cup down next to him on the counter and turned back to my cuttings. I nodded absently, hoping my lack of interest would deter him from staying any longer.

"Then you should know all about it shouldn't you?" He was laughing at me. I wasn't used to snobbery; I spent my life amongst the lower classes that had no sense of superiority. It angered me that he patronized me so. I had never tasted alcohol in my life.

He was staring down that straight nose of his at me, so much so that I half expected him to climb up onto the stool so as to get a better look from a higher perch.

"I know that the ancient Celts practiced distilling. They called Scotch 'the water of life'. But I've never tasted it." I articulated, I admit, a little haughtily. "Besides, I didn't live in Ireland for very long." I dismissed, trying to temper my tone. He was endeavoring to exasperate me, I knew.

"And after you moved to England, did you live in Whitechapel or near the Haymarket?"

I bristled immediately. It was a subtle insult, one that he could plea innocence to. The Haymarket housed many fancy restaurants and theaters but was also an egregious area of prostitution.

I continued my tasks and failed to respond, forgetting my manners. I thought he would leave in a huff, perhaps even complain about my insolence but instead, I felt his hot breath on my neck and his hands were on me from behind. I gasped and dropped my knife loudly onto the cutting-board, clutching his hands.

He took it as enthusiasm and dropped his lips to my shoulder. "Were you popular at the Haymarket?" He snarled.

I shoved him back and tried to squirm away. He spun me to face him, pulling at my bodice and popping the buttons off. He snickered at my resistance, as if it were all part of some terribly amusing game.

He grabbed at my rump with both hands. I tried to push him while keeping my dress up, a hard feat, and would surely have failed in one or the either had not footsteps interrupted our tussle.

The young master stood in the doorway and I spun away shakily, holding my dress up to my chest. My hand reached for the knife in a vain attempt to pretend as if nothing was happening.

Quentin Finch acknowledged him; sounding for the entire world as if nothing out of the ordinary was taking place.

"Mr. Finch...will you be joining us for dinner?" His voice was calm but beneath the still surface I could sense a feral hum of emotion. I worried that he thought I had been a willing participant in what he had witnessed. I clutched the counter top with the two fingers not wrapped around the knife's handle while my other hand continued to hold my top in place. I felt warm with mortification. My hair brushed my shoulder, letting me know that it had fallen from its pins.

"I cannot, I'm afraid. I was merely sharing tea with Jane in the sitting-room." Quentin responded smoothly.

"Ah, so you are here for a reason." Mr. Finch grew silent at the ice in the young man's strong voice.

"Of course," he responded evenly, "I wouldn't be here without a reason."

His footsteps sounded across the floor but my rescuer's voice stopped him. "By the way, Mr. Finch, could you be as kind as to refrain from roaming my house as if you owned it?"

There was no response but I heard Quentin Finch depart, leaving us now alone. I pressed my bodice to my chest, my hands quaking badly as I attempted to slice through a whole onion. My eyes watered with tears. He was still standing there. I needed to find my buttons but did want him to see me. It was appalling enough that my hair was down in his presence.

The knife rattled against the counter, my hand trembling violently. I stubbornly refused to turn to him, and continued to foolishly wield the blade clumsily. His hand slid onto my elbow, avoiding contact with my bare skin, to prevent me from raising it once more.

"You will cut yourself."

I spun from him and rushed to the door, my dress held closed only with my fist.

"I am not done speaking to you." He demanded. I stopped halfway to the door and safety. I kept my back to him.

"You are to tell me if anything like this occurs again." He continued. I felt a small bit of relief that he knew I had not welcomed the advances. I still felt scandalized with my appearance and hoped he would let me go soon.

I bowed my head, "I will…I will inform you or your family."

"No." He snapped, "You are to tell me."

I nodded.

"Why won't you face me?" He asked and my trembling started anew. I did nothing but stand there, my face burning and my breathing so rapid and shallow that I felt as if I were about to inflate and float away. He moved again and I heard the distinct sound of something scraping the floor and then he was behind me, reaching his closed hand over my shoulder. I let him drop the buttons into my palm, my head still lowered in embarrassment. He cleared his throat awkwardly, "You are excused."

I fairly ran from the room and made it to my chamber without incident. My mother was terribly upset, though I was quick to reassure her that the young master had not molested me.

"I did not think he would . . . was it the horrid boy?" She asked after she had calmed a bit.

I nodded silently.

"I will speak to Mrs. Wilson about this. I will not have you alone with him anymore."

I retrieved a needle and thread to fix my buttons. The thread was not the right color, but it was hardly something I was concerned with. "Do not do that mum. It will not happen again, and we are hardly in a place to make demands on the house concerning what company they allow." I did not mention that I did not want to unduly anger Jane, who had taken a sudden dislike to me and strove to find reasons to scold me and draw me into arguments.

"How do you know it will not happen again?"

I threaded the needle. "Because the master saw and he told me he would not allow it."

She stared at me for a bit, her face flushed with anger and her eyes searching mine. "And you trust him?

I nodded.

There was no hesitation.



When Mrs. Wilson arrived home the next afternoon, she called all of us into the sitting room. I had no intention of relating my molestation to her. After thinking it over, I felt safe that the young master would not allow such things to happen again. It was an assumption based on very little actual knowledge of him, but I reveled in it all the same.

My mum and I stood at the threshold as the missus pulled box after box out onto the couch next to Jane. Her son sat on the settee, looking bored but not as bored as I would have thought considering the many dainty objects she was holding up. But then, his mother was always given special attention and he often went out of his way to be kind and polite to her.

She handed out gifts she had picked up for her children, handing her son an expensive looking, velvet-lined violin case to keep his precious fiddle in. His eyes lit up and he promptly began examining minutely, an act that would have been considered rude by any other standard, if it weren't for the unabashed happiness that shone from his usually neutral eyes. She rubbed his back in lieu of any verbal communication; they appeared to avoid expressing their regard for each other in that way for the most part.

"I have something for you two, as well." She addressed us.

"That's really not necessary, ma'am." My mother deferred politely.

"Oh, it was nothing." She responded, pulling out a modest but finely made silk shawl, perfectly suited for my mother. It was thoughtfulness on Mrs. Wilson's part not to buy anything more expensive - opera gloves or a Worth dressing gown would have been vastly insulting to a servant, who would have no use for it. My mother accepted the gift graciously.

"We're buying presents for the servants now?" Jane muttered but was masterfully ignored by the lady of the house.

"And for you, Mary." She held out a plainly wrapped object, "I hope you like it."

I unwrapped it, curious to see what it was. I leather-bound book stared up at me, thin and light. Alice's Adventures in Wonderland read the title. I ran a hand over it and looked up at her curiously.

"I thought you might like it, I heard it's quite good." She explained, looking strangely self-conscious about my reaction.

"I'm sure I will. Thank you."

"What possible use can she have for it, she can't even read." Jane scoffed.

"Jane." Her stepmother reprimanded softly and I stood there embarrassed, not sure whether I should correct her and uncomforted by the encouraging hand my mother discreetly pressed into my back.

"Remind me, Jane, what was the name of that last book you read?" The boy's voice cut through the air, carelessly, as he continued to finger his gift as if nothing of interest was happening around him. Jane's face turned bright red, apparently unused to being talked down to by anyone. I smiled at the boy's sharp words and as Jane turned her glare from him she caught the tail end of my smirk.

Mrs. Wilson, sensing the strain, shooed us out of the room, "Alright, you're free to go. This is your day off and you needn't waste it on my nonsense."

We thanked her hastily again for the tokens and she waved away our expressions. Patting my hair gently she instructed, "No need to thank me, it's my pleasure. Just as long as you-" She didn't finish her sentence, but rather, grabbed at her chest and almost tottered. The boy sprung from his seat, his violin case forgotten, and rushed to her side as my mum and I steadied her. He guided her back to the couch.

"I'm alright." She protested, but her voice was strained.

"Sit down for a bit." Her son commanded, settling her down next to Jane, who began feeling her forehead, much to the annoyance of Mrs. Wilson.

"See, you've gone and upset her." Jane shot in my direction as I hovered behind the boy, concerned.

"Jane." His voice was sharp and cold, and the warning in it was unmistakable. She fell silent at it, as I imagine anyone would.

"I said that I am fine, just a bit faint. Stop fussing over me so." Mrs. Wilson shoved at her son's shoulder, ordering him to cease his coddling. He resisted her, crouching down in front of her, observing her closely.

"I'll stay home tonight mother, if you need me here." Jane offered. She had made plans to dine with her beau that evening.

"No! Stop it right this instant." She rose and pushed past us all, disappearing down the hall and up the stairs.


	9. Beware, My Lord, Of Jealousy

Chapter 7: Beware, My Lord, Of Jealousy  


I was halfway through the book by dinnertime. It was extraordinary. I couldn't seem to put it down. About half past five in the evening, Mrs. Wilson knocked on our door and asked us if we would like to join the family for dinner. I stared up at her from my position sitting cross-legged on the bed, my newfound treasure laid open in my arms.

"It's only me and my son, and a simple dinner." She offered and we obliged, joining her at the dining table with her son, who were both polite and charming in their conversation. It was a startlingly refreshing moment, being treated with such kindness. Jane came home a quarter of an hour into the dinner, after a fight with her charming courtier and retired to her room without greeting us. Mrs. Wilson didn't press her for details nor encourage her to join us.

"Did you hear the missus, mum? She said she'd take me to Paris to see the Champs-Elysée. We've never been to France." I prattled after dinner.

"She said she 'might' dear." My mum reminded, rebuking me gently for my misplaced enthusiasm.

I crawled into bed, grabbing my book and lighting the candle next to me as my mother blew out hers. "I know it won't happen, mum, but you don't find it at all wonderful that she even said it?"

"People can always say something." My mother murmured, cuddling into her side of the bed.

"Yes, but they don't." I muttered, growing peevish with her. She must have not heard me; she lay still for long while and I resumed my book where I had left off. I finished it that night, ignoring my mother's huffing and shifting in the bed next to me for keeping her up.



The next morning, I started it again, laying it open as I folded clothes from the line and as I did my mending and sewing. It lay open as I wiped down the counters before afternoon tea. Pulling out the cups and saucers, I arranged them onto their respective trays. I gathered sugar and flour and thought about making some tarts for after dinner, though I hesitated to do so without my mum. I was not proficient in all the arts of cooking. In fact, I sometimes wished the family would get around to hiring a chef, as was the custom. But then, I'm afraid most would not look the other way when a few treats were stolen, or when sweets and wine were the only items consumed. I poured some water over the tea leaves.

I began reading out loud to myself one of my favorite parts of the story:

"'They told me you had been to her,  
And mentioned me to him:  
She gave me a good character,  
But said I could not swim.  
He sent them word I had not gone  
(We know it to be true):  
If she should push the matter on,  
What would become of you?  
I gave her one, they gave him two,  
You gave us three or more;  
They all returned from him to you,  
Though they were mine before-'"

"Charming."

I jumped at the voice near my ear. He stood near me, one hand in his pocket, the other holding his precious violin and a glitter of laughter in his eyes. I should have known he'd show up once I pulled out the bag of sugar.

"Must you sneak up on me like that?" I demanded, closing the book hastily.

"I wasn't being particularly quiet Mary. Perhaps if you didn't have your head in the clouds it wouldn't be so easy to startle you." He smiled amiably, seeming to have forgotten the humiliating situation he had found me in the day before.

"My head was not in the clouds." I argued for the sake of arguing.

He shrugged, reaching over my shoulder to capture his teacup and smiling at me. "Whatever it fancies you to call it." He poured himself a cup and sipped at it, leaning on the edge of the table and staring at me and the makings of dessert in turn. "It was a sweet poem."

"I told you not all poems were sad."

"Indeed." He agreed but I wondered if he meant it or if he were merely humoring me.

He sat at the table, sipping his tea and tuning his violin. He struck a few chords and then played a segment of his favorite piece, if the melodies wafting from his room at all hours were any indication.

"What is the name of that?" I asked as I arranged the scones and napkins. "Lieda?"

He gave a sharp bark of laughter and then cut himself off at seeing my embarrassment, "It's Lieder."

"I may not be the best judge, sir, but I think you play it marvelously."

He drained his tea and fiddled with the instrument once more. "Then perhaps not being an expert is a blessing."

"Depends on your point of view, I suppose." I fiddled with my newly sewn buttons.

"How did you get that scar?"

I froze, startled by the random question. "Excuse me?"

"On your arm."

I glanced down at my arm and the half-hidden mark that I had received when I was younger. "I am not sure." I lied.

"If you don't wish to talk about it . . ."

"I don't really remember, I was running and I fell." I clarified.

"Running from whom?"

"Some people, I don't know why." It was the truth.

He didn't respond, leaving me to wonder if he was really listening to me at all.

"What are you making for dinner?" He asked instead. His mother had requested some rabbit in wine sauce, something she had tried while in France, but I knew that he was asking about what we were having after diner. A sound at the backdoor diverted my attention before I could answer. James stood on the porch, gesturing me outside. I tried to wave him off surreptitiously, but he did not budge.

"Do you have a pressing engagement, Mary?" The young master asked, not lifting his eyes from his labor.

"No, sir." I stuttered, worried that he was displeased with me.

He cast an unreadable glance at me from the corner of his eye, "Are you cavorting with your . . . friend while you're supposed to be working?"

"Heaven's no! I assure you that I do not mess about while at my tasks, sir."

"So this is the first time he has approached you while you were on duty?"

I stood stupidly, not willing and perhaps not able to lie to him. My silence was enough of an answer. "You will not tell?" I finally asked.

He stood, tucking his violin under his arm and grabbing Jane's tray from the counter. "What I cannot see, I cannot tell. I'll take Jane's tray to her. She's in the sitting room."

"May I ask you something, sir?" I stopped him and he straddled the threshold, his arms full. "How is a raven like a writing-desk?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"It's a riddle, sir, but I cannot think of the answer."

He stared at me for a moment as if I had gone mad before scrunching up his face in thought. After a second of deliberation he finally responded, "Because they both produce a few notes, but are better known for their bills."

I smiled and he trudged out of the kitchen.

I put my book on my night table before making dinner. It was the last time I ever saw it. I overturned everything in my room that night as my mother watched silently. I knew it had to be here; I hadn't touched it since I'd slid in onto my end table over two hours ago.

Finally, I settled down onto the side of my bed, putting my head in my hands and rubbing the side of my face.

"Where did you last have it?" My mum asked softly, though I knew she knew as well as I did that I had not lost the book. I didn't answer her, lacking the energy. "Maybe you should ask the family if they've seen it." She offered hopefully.

I sighed and shrugged.

"Well, how many times could you read it anyway?" She persisted. I sat stiffly; confused as to how my mother couldn't see why I was upset. It wasn't just the book, it was that the book was mine; given to me by someone who obviously thought I deserved it. How many children in Whitechapel could claim that?

The next morning, I went about my work without thinking about anything that I was doing. The laundry was not handled with care and the floors were not swept around every corner. Thankfully, the family was venturing to the opera in the evening, one of the few outings that the son joined them on, and so they paid me no mind for the most part.

I think the boy noticed my consternation, though. He'd hover about the doorways as I worked before abruptly walking away without saying anything. I suspect that he knew what was wrong, though how I do not know. I even caught him in the sitting room, looking beneath the cushions of the divan. I debated whether I should tell him his search was fruitless but I merely smiled weakly at his show of concern, though I knew that he would never admit it.

When, at last, I mustered up enough boldness to ask if anyone had seen the missing item, they were having some wine in the library before departing for the opera. The two ladies of the house were the only ones present. I coughed discreetly at the doorway and curtsied as Mrs. Wilson looked up from her spot perched on the arm of the chair, reviewing the opera guide with Jane so that she would not be lost among the Italian lyrics.

I curtsied, "Evening. I hate to bother you, ma'am, but I was wondering if you'd seen the present you gave me? I seem to have misplaced it."

"Very careless of you, Mary, doesn't seem very appreciative in my opinion." Jane reprimanded. Her voice was slick and patronizing.

"It happens to the best of us." Mrs. Wilson encouraged. "I am afraid that I haven't seen it, though. Perhaps you simply need to retrace your steps, dear."

I nodded and left, feeling worse than I did before. I met my mother in the kitchen, as she was coming in from gathering wood from outside.

"Are you quite well, Mary? You look a little pale."

"I'm fine."

My mother eyed me disbelievingly before depositing the wood into my arms and silently respecting my wish not to speak of what was bothering me. I left her there without another word but I could feel her eyes boring into me, worried.

As I was piling the wood into the sitting room's fireplace, something we were to do in all the rooms so that the house would be warm for the family's return, I noticed a half scorched piece of paper deep in the ashes. I poked at it, recognizing the familiar print. Strangely, I didn't feel anything when I realized what it was, except that familiar tingle in the back of my neck that told me I was about to fall in a faint.

I made my way shakily to my room before the attack hit and awoke staring up at my bedroom ceiling from a cumbersome position on the floor. My body ached all over and I only managed to climb into bed before giving into that painfully sweet unconsciousness that I was so very used to.



"Mary. Mary." Someone was shoving my shoulder. I grunted and rolled away from them, unsuccessfully trying to bury my head, and my headache, into the pillow.

"Mary, you wake up right this instant!"

I recognized the voice and sprung to attention, my hair in disarray and covering half my face. "What time is it?"

Mrs. Wilson smoothed the wayward strands away so that she could look at me. She was perched on the side of my bed, still in full formal dress and gloves. "It's past ten, dear."

I pushed the covers off my knees and started to rise, though my head was spinning and my limbs protested. "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to doze off."

"You look very pale." She took hold of my shoulder and pushed me back down.

"I'm just a trifle tired."

"Nonsense, you look awful." She remarked, kindly enough to soften the insult. "It took me near ten minutes to rouse you. I was debating whether I should fetch you a doctor."

How very embarrassing. "That's not necessary." I started to rise again.

She pushed me down again, "Lay back down, Mary. You'll run yourself to the ground."

"I'm quite capable." I asserted.

"Mary." I stilled at the warning in her voice. She felt around on my forehead as I finally fell back into the pillows willingly. "You've never been a maid before have you?"

"Why do you ask that?" My vision was beginning to clear and my head was steadying itself but I still felt tired beyond belief.

"It's not hard to see."

I regarded her through half-lidded eyes, "My work has not been lacking has it?" After my previous movements, I didn't have enough energy to be anxious.

"No, Mary, but you seem thinner than when I first met you and, judging from the circles dancing around your eyes, you also much more tired." She started pulling off her gloves, tugging at each finger.

"I am merely unaccustomed to such labor. I will grow use to it." I waved away.

"I do hope so dear." She murmured. She laid her long cream-colored gloves on her lap. "Did you find your book?"

I paused, "I suppose you could say that I did."

She smoothed out the lap of her dress and gave me a shrewd glance, "My son mentioned he found the . . . remains of it while he was lighting the fire in the fireplace."

"It must have fallen." I covered, not wishing to get in the middle of a conflict with any person in the house.

She rolled her eyes in the most unladylike fashion. "It did no such thing. She must be reprimanded." She said with a note of resigned finality.

I could just imagine Jane's resentment. "That's not needed."

"No, she must be and I suppose I have to be the one to do it, before my darling son gives her a verbal lashing, which he is anxious to do."

"He shouldn't concern himself so." I really couldn't imagine a verbal lashing from him. I couldn't believe he would lower himself to do so.

"He's very concerned." Mrs. Wilson stated seriously, though she smiled as if she found it humorous. "He suggested the book to me after all."

I stared at her a bit, "He did?"

"Certainly. He told me you liked 'happy' things to read and mentioned a new book he had heard of. I know nothing of contemporary writers." She patted my arm as I pondered this new development. "Sleep now and try to feel better, Mary."

The next few weeks, I grew used to joining the young master in the sitting room, feeling somehow closer to him since he had shown such kindness to me, however indirectly. He took to doing his chemical experiments even when I was present, though I preferred it when he would read to me. The first time he had done so, he'd read me "A Midsummer's Night Dream." I didn't understand half of it and the other half I only understood because I asked him to explain it to me. He seemed happy to do so and instead of being deterred from Shakespeare, he seemed more contented to read it to me when he knew he had to, in effect, teach it to me. I think he was trying to make up for all the unpleasantness I had endured, and I even suspected that he may have done some creative reading, glossing over the darker parts of the tales for me.

It was no substitute to my book, but the sound of his voice was pleasant enough and it made him happy.


	10. What Light Through Yonder Window

Chapter 8: What Light through Yonder Window...  


During the next few months I took up secret violin lessons. It began most informally when I chanced to pick up the sleek instrument one day when I thought its owner was out. He walked in on me, though, and suggested that he could teach me the basics. I do not know why I jumped so quickly at the chance but I soon learned that the "basics" were hardly simple.

It was an extremely difficult task to hold the violin, press the right chords and strike the notes with the bow at the same time. I think I tested his patience a great deal with my lack of skill, though he never tried to get out of any of our meetings.

As much as we argued during these engagements, I found myself looking forward to them every Tuesday. I found myself more and more drawn to him as I got closer to him as a person. I grew fond of his manner, and the endearing way his hand would hover above mine while teaching me the chords and notes.

He told me once, during an especially unfruitful lesson that he believed I was too much of a contented person to ever play well.

"The violin is a deeply passionate instrument. It manifest inner emotion, inner turmoil," were his exact words. "I do not believe you are in possession of any of these."

"And you are?" I retorted. He knew nothing of my inner turmoil.

It was a memorable look he gave me before pushing the violin back into my arms. He seemed particularly wound up and I asked him what the trouble with him was today.

He ran a hand down his face. His expression was soft when he looked at me, though. "You are the trouble with me."

"I'm sorry that I cannot do as you want. Perhaps you should just play."

"No, I wish for you to learn."

"Why?"

"Because it is my desire. Is that not enough?" He leaned his head down to his shoulder, and I noticed he looked fatigued. That blackness was about to descend on his mood; I could see it.

"I will never be good. You are perfect at it, while I cannot even hold the bow correctly."

He was standing over me, one hand slipped into the pocket of his trousers. He colored at my words, though his stoic eyes did not change.

"You exaggerate. I have many technical flaws that you are simply not aware of." He said softly, his usually strident voice becoming a tenor that was unsettlingly smooth and dark.

I stared up at him, the light from the window outlining his form. "Even your flaws are perfect though."

I could not read his stare. It lasted longer than I knew he would have liked but an appropriate response to my statement was obviously difficult for him to muster.

"You do not know all my flaws, Mary." The gravity of his words piqued my interest. I wanted to know and my own curiosity scared me.

"I wish to know . . . everything." I hadn't meant to pause- it added a meaning to my words that I didn't quite understand at the time, though my pulse sped up alarmingly.

His face hardened as though he was in deep consternation. The suggestion of my words was not lost on him, and I worried that he might think me salacious.

The sun shifted in that heavy moment and waves of light fell on his strong face, drawing attention to his features - the auburn highlights in his hair. He leaned forward so that his face lingered a few inches in front of mine and his grey eyes met my blue ones. I forced myself not to look away, or let on that my toes and feet had begun tingling.

His mouth opened and my gaze focused on it, in high-strung expectation of whatever intimate part of himself he was about to reveal to me. I was shocked that he was responding at all; that he hadn't simply demanded that I explain myself, or reprimand me for being so forward. But his eyes were warm, open. He knew I did not mean to sound so reckless. His confidence in my innocence calmed me at the same time it caused a prickle of irritation to form on the back of my neck.  
He smirked and his eyes crinkled around the sides - that tickle of irritation turned into something else, something deeper.

He finally answered. "I am a terrible dancer. Two left feet, as my mother says." He winked.

I let out a shaky breath as he now moved around the room, shutting the windows to block out the sun. We were sharing our first truly awkward moment, and I wondered what had just changed between us.


	11. It Doth Mock The Meat It Feeds On

Chapter 9: It Doth Mock the Meat It Feeds On  


Jane's sixteenth birthday was approaching; a mere month before my own. Apparently, it was to be an affaire grande. Every day I was sent out to purchase food and other necessities, and fruit was delivered to our very door; an arranged gift from some relatives of Mrs. Wilson's in Montpellier. The kitchen counters were soon covered in delicacies to the point that the family was obliged to take their meals in the formal dining room.

The smell of food inundated the air and, with the pleasant summer weather, the kitchen was a divine place to spend one's time. And a great deal of time I did indeed spend there, as I cooked the regular meals and kept an eye on the edibles overflowing the table and counters. I would be also baking the next few days, something I had grown to enjoy doing.

At night, however, I worked outside. The fence had to be done before we received guests and James had taken Jane's advice and asked her brother to assist him. I was afforded the opportunity to discover that James and the young man of the house seemed to get on very well because I was delegated the task of holding the lantern for the two men whenever they were forced into working after night fall. They both were pleasant, though they seemed to be oblivious to my effort of holding up the heavy contraption and trying to follow their every move.

They were amazingly comfortable with each other, despite the differences in their personalities and class. Perhaps because even with his expensive suits and nice shoes, the young master was no more averse to crawling around on his knees in the dirt than James himself was. There was no pretension; no indication that Jane's brother thought at all that the task was beneath him.

I, for one, was convinced that he greatly enjoyed being outside and working like a common laborer. He was also very good at it, being exceptionally strong and observant. Somehow he managed to locate the best spots for James to set the posts simply by pushing at the ground with the toe of his shoe. James never questioned it or him and seemed to admire his ability and the honest air he had about him.

The Tuesday afternoon preceding the celebration, I spent my time cooking. I was alternating between stewing up some soup and squeezing lemons into a carafe to make lemonade when he came into the kitchen. He peered into a pot I was using to melt chocolate for the almond biscuits that were baking alongside the bread.

He didn't acknowledge me and I could feel him tramping around behind my back, examining the feast laid out before him.

The table creaked.

"Do not touch those." I ordered without turning. I didn't know what he had pilfered but everything was to be left for the festivities. I gave the lemon I had in my grip a final, emphatic squeeze and wiped my hands on my apron as I turned to look at him.

He stood staring at me with some grapes in his hand. I was a little surprised that he hadn't reached for the pastries, tortes, or chocolates that were in the middle of the table. Mrs. Wilson favored the French cuisine, and along with the desserts I was soon to go into town to purchase expensive cheeses and wines.

He arched his eyebrow at me, looking amazed that I had ventured to order him about. "They're for the party." I stated firmly.

He smirked and squinted down at his hand for a moment before popping the small purple fruit into his mouth. "I'm sure that they won't be missed." He replied smartly.

I "tsked" at him and gave him a reproving look. He was in just his shirtsleeves, his tie loose and his collar shoved down. His hair was mussed, as if he had just awoken from a catnap. I finally had to smile at him as he shoved another grape in his mouth slowly and deliberately just to defy me. I turned from him, still smiling, and resumed my task.

As I was cutting through a sour lemon, he asked me what I was doing.

"I'm making lemonade."

"What happened to tea?"

"It's warm out," I responded, "and I thought you might like this. It's sweet but sour."

"Is it?" His voice was mocking enough to let me know he had tasted lemonade before. I blushed at how patronizing I had sounded.

He came and leaned against the counter next to me, his hands in his pockets and a maddening smirk on his fine face. I stilled for a moment, casting him a distracted glance out of the corner of my eye.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

He shrugged, "I'm merely watching you."

The thought made me flustered and my hands shook so bad at his scrutiny that I had difficulty cutting through the lemon on my cutting board. He watched my discomfiture with a growing look of amusement.

"I'm sorry," he murmured very insincerely, "That sounded very much as if you were some dance-hall strumpet, didn't it?"

He was trying to mix me up and it worked well - my knife came down on the cutting board, missing the fruit entirely. My face grew warm and I smoothed my hair self-consciously. He stared at me intently for a few more moments as I stumbled around and avoided looking at him.

He finally shoved off from the counter and began rifling through the cupboards behind me.

"What are you looking for?" I asked rather brusquely. His presence in the kitchen, though not at all annoying, was diverting me into odd and agitated behavior.

"Where are the cookies from last night?" He used the American term, which sounded odd rolling around in his mouth and peppered with his curious accent. The buttery lemon biscuits had indeed been quite heavy and not at all as dry as the British preferred.

"Jane ate the last of them."

He started to say something but caught himself. His response echoed more like a grunt instead. He closed the cupboards with a long-suffering sigh - always such a martyr.

"What are you cooking?"

I allowed myself to roll my eyes since my back was turned.

"Some soup and bread." I paused before saying what he really wanted to know. "And some biscuits with chocolate."

I pulled out the bag of sugar and set it on the counter, attempting to bend over gracefully since he was standing behind me.

"Oh."

He stood there. I cupped some granules of sugar in my hands and dumped it into the half full carafe, trying to gauge how much sweetness would be needed for all of the lemons. I ladled some cloudy juice out and sipped it. It was a little tart.

"Do we have ice?" He asked. I put the ladle down a little more forcefully than I needed to, exasperated by his constant questioning.

"Yes, but not much. I'm going to use it in the lemonade."

"Oh . . . Good," was his absurd reply.

I silently prayed for patience and then glanced at him over my shoulder. He gave me a charming smile.

"Am I bothering you?"

"That was your intent, was it not?" I replied impertinently.

He chuckled. I turned back to my work and waited a beat, expecting another question, which came right on cue. "So is the chocolate for the biscuits tonight?"

Amusement shoved away my irritation. "Yes."

"Mmmm . . ." His shoes padded across the floor.

"Do not touch that!" I exclaimed, turning to see him doing exactly what I had anticipated.

He put one hand on his hip, looking comically like an exasperated mother, which was absurd considering his other hand was poised over the pot, one finger about to descend into the warm chocolate like that of a five-year old.

He obeyed, though he didn't move, waiting for me to apologize for raising my voice at him. Rather, I grabbed a croissant from the table, and pushed him softly away from the stove.

"You're going to make yourself sick just eating this by itself. Here." I ran a knife through the bread's soft middle and opened it, spooning some of the dark confection into it and closing it like a sandwich. I held it out to him.

He stared at me as if I had just sprouted an extra head.

"Try it." I demanded.

He obliged and bit into it, not looking ill at ease at all with my study of him as he chewed. Some chocolate made its way to his cheek from his finger. I smiled and reached up to wipe it off with my finger.

He was never ungraceful. The awkwardness that sometimes afflicted young men had never been present in him. But at my touch, he jerked his face away inelegantly before he could stop himself.

Striding to the opposite counter as I backed up until my legs hit the lower cupboards; he arranged his treat onto a plate like a civilized person and wiped his cheek with a linen towel. I felt as if I just done something horribly wrong but when he spoke next, he sounded as if nothing at all had happened.

"This is good." He complimented.

I grabbed at my dress in anxiety. "Well . . . I'll bring some lemonade up to your room when I am finished." It was a blunt hint. I didn't want him near me right now; he made me feel as if I were suffocating.

He obliged and exited with his plate, not saying goodbye or thank you. I exhaled as he disappeared and moved around the kitchen with more freedom. I enjoyed his company, but after our last violin lesson, our encounters had grown stranger, though he seemed less formal with me and taken to teasing me quite a bit.

But there was a strain, and I had just pushed it to its snapping point by trying to touch him. I tried not to feel insulted, but my chest constricted a bit.

I finished juicing the lemons and poured just enough sugar in to make the drink perfect. I added a few bits of ice and placed it on a tray to take to him.

I followed the strains of his violin, piercing and screeching, to the sitting room. He was curled up in my favorite chair, the fiddle on his knee, his head back, and the bow striking randomly at the chords. I flinched and cleared my throat.

He stared lazily at me. "Hello, Mary." He greeted as if we had not just spoken a few moments ago. I slid the tray onto the table next to him. He stared up at me as I bent close to him, unburdening myself of my load. I smiled nervously at him and poured him a healthy glass of cold lemonade.

"It's going to rain tomorrow." He stated randomly as I handed him the drink.

"Is it?" I replied.

"For a few days, actually." He straightened in his chair and I watched him sip at the fruit of my labors with a neutral expression.

He imbibed it contentedly. I smoothed my dress and made an expectant noise.

He smiled at me teasingly, "It's the best drink I've ever tasted." He flattered and I smiled, satisfied.

"Would you mind if I tried it?"

My smiled tightened immediately at the silvery voice from the doorway.

My face was pleasant enough by the time I turned to face her. "How are you, Miss Jane?" I asked, curtsying.

She smiled at me, her eyes roving over me in that uncomfortably dissecting way. "I'm well." She answered and moved into the room, her skirts whispering, and landed herself on the arm of his chair. "So, may I try some?"

I glanced at him, noting the planes of his face smoothing into a hardened mask. "Of course," I glanced at the tray, "let me get you a glass."

She smiled sweetly at me, "Oh, if it's a bother then never mind."

"Are you certain?"

She nodded and looked at him, "I'm sure my brother will let me have a sip of his."

I picked up his plate, the croissant fully devoured now, and nodded. I turned to go, completely disinclined to be witness to her blatant advances. To my surprise, she stood up and followed me out.

"I wanted to speak to you, Mary." She stopped me as I was just rounding the staircase to enter the kitchen.

My stomach rolled, but I merely faced her, my hand lying gently on the banister. "Yes?"

"You will be serving the guests at my party for the most part and I just felt that we needed to discuss what you are going to wear."

I nodded, worried that she was going to suggest putting me into a maid's uniform.

"I was thinking that I could lend you a dress?"

"Oh." I stated dumbly, shocked by the unexpected nicety.

"What's your favorite color?"

I stared at her a bit, my mind searching for why she was being kind to me. "Blue." I replied evenly. It matched my fair skin.

"Blue? That sounds lovely and it would compliment your eyes and hair . . . you'd look a lot less drab."

My jaw clenched as she reverted to her usual self.

"However," she continued, eyeing me critically, "I'm worried a little about the fit." Her brother had come out of the sitting room and stood behind her, sipping his drink and watching the scene unfolding with a highly interested eye. "My dresses are tailored for me, and I would guess my shoulders are not quite as wide as yours. Maybe I could find a dress I no longer want so that I can have it let out to fit someone as substantial as yourself."

She watched me for a reaction. Jane was almost waif-like, tall and elegant. I fully admit that I was much healthier in weight than her. I glared openly at her as she fingered one of her black ringlets and looked innocently at me.

The young master's face had taken on an odd look of fear and disbelief. He was young but he knew full well what a great insult I had just been delivered.

"Do whatever you please, miss." I hissed through clenched teeth, letting her get the best of me for the first time.

I turned on my heel and strode my substantial form back into the kitchen where my mum had already arrived and set about stirring the soup.

I fumed next to her as she silently observed me. I mixed the chocolate one last time before moving or, rather, shoving it off the stove to cool. The pot clanged loudly against the counter as my anger manifested itself in violent jerky movements. My mum stared at me.

He had come to stand in the doorway, but walked away after a moment of silence.

"Are you alright, Mary?" My mother inquired gently.

"I'm fine." I snapped. I started to reach for the biscuits to begin coating them, but sighed and went to retrieve my shawl instead.

"I'm going for a walk." I informed her as I wrapped myself up and disappeared through the back door.

I went to the east, passing by the stables that housed Mr. and Mrs. Wilson's horses that James groomed. The smell of hay was strong in the air and I inhaled it deeply as I tried to remember how to get to the waterfall that was near. I'd never been there, but I heard Mrs. Wilson say once that it was to the east and passed the farmers.

I walked a bit, enjoying the pleasantness of summer twilight and letting my shawl hang loosely about my shoulders. My anger began to ebb as I watched the sun rays as they shifted into the darkness of night and stared at the purple rays of the horizon waning beneath the hills.

I suddenly came to a dirt road, ensconced on each side by plots of land which looked very agricultural, and which was all surrounded by an old wood fence that came to my hips. I walked a few minutes on the road before spying a silhouetted figure on the other side of the fence a ways down. When I reached the figure, I saw that it was an older man, stout and red-skinned as if he'd been working in the sun all day. He leaned against his plow and watched me as I approached.

"Good evening, sir. Could you point me in the direction of the waterfall?" I tightened my shawl around me instinctively.

He smiled agreeably, though I didn't miss the appraising look that he swept over my form. "Just keep walking down this road, sweetie."

I thanked him and continued on, ignoring a complimentary remark he made under his breath about my backside.

"You shouldn't be walking around by yourself."

I jumped to the side and almost tripped over at the sound of a voice next to my ear. He reached out and grabbed my arm, avoiding my ungloved hand, his grey eyes showing shock at my reaction to his sudden appearance.

"Good heavens! You scared me!" I exclaimed breathlessly, "How long have you been following me?"

"Since you left, obviously."

"Why?"

"Because you don't know your way around."

"So you choose to stalk me? And with no jacket?" At home it was quite within his rights to walk about how he pleased but outside it was highly improper.

He glanced around, "There is no one here but me and you." He answered, ignoring my first question.

"That isn't true! I just passed a farmer . . ." he gave me an incredulous look and I clamped my mouth shut. That working man was not one to be offended with my companion's lack of propriety.

I wondered why he was here. Perhaps he was came merely to remind me that it was not quite right of me to go running off without finishing dinner. Or maybe he had come simply because no one would have expected him to seek out to comfort a servant. Either way, I didn't appreciate the sentiment.

He seemed to read my thoughts and took a step back, "Would you like me to go?"

I hesitated and admitted to myself that I did not. I took a tentative step forward and he read me, falling into pace next to me and walking leisurely at my side, keeping his strides in rhythm with mine.

"Where are you going?"

"To the waterfall."

"Have you been there before?"

I shook my head and he took my arm, navigating me through a patch of trees. "Here's a shortcut . . . watch out for branches."

We hiked through some closely gathered trees, keeping our hands in front of our faces to guard against unseen foliage. I could hear the sound of rushing water before we had cleared the trees. When we stepped into the grass next to the rapids, I gaped at it bit. The crest of the fall was back dropped against the western sunset and it cast dazzling rosy and saffron hues onto the shifting water.

He moved forward, going closer to the edge than I was willing and peered down into the canyon below. "It's not far," he stated to reassure me, "though I wouldn't suggest jumping into it."

I nodded, recalling the fate of their last maid, and plopped myself down on my rump without approaching any closer. Dampness from the mist soaked into my dress and I gritted my teeth but refused to stand back up. I was not going to let him know my backside was wet.

He slipped his hands into his pockets. The spray had caught his sleeve and drenched the white silk. A patch of pale skin and taut muscle could be seen through the transparent spot. I looked away and leaned my elbows on my knees.

"You're not upset, are you?" He asked, titling his head back to look at the sky as grey gathered and pushed out the comforting tints of ochre. The sun dipped behind the fall, and it grew darker.

His irises were almost ivory against the dusk when he lowered his head to regard me, waiting for me to answer.

"Yes." I admitted.

"Don't be."

"Why not?"

"If you are going to feel anything for Jane ... just let it be pity."

"What? Are you defending her?" I asked angrily.

He shook his head, "No, but . . . I don't think her father has spoken a word to her in five years."

"So? What is your point?" I wanted him to insult her.

"She's . . ."

He trailed off. I could think of many things Jane was. I clucked my tongue slowly and thickly instead of enumerating them, though my thoughts came through even in that gesture.

"She's difficult but I just wonder what she'd be like if her life were different." He confessed. He smiled weakly, "That's terribly philosophical of me, isn't it?"

I pursed my lips, "No, it's terribly forgiving of you."

We sat in pregnant silence for a while.

He approached me and held out his hand. "Come now, let's cut along before everyone realizes we've gone."

I stretched to take his hand but he clasped my elbow instead, hefting me up effortlessly.

"Why didn't you let me touch you?" I asked before I could stop myself and think about how appalling the question really was.

"I beg your pardon?" He looked startled.

"In the kitchen . . ." I surged forward, feeling it was better to explain myself than clam up, "am I not allowed? Did I do something wrong?"

His lips had parted in surprise and he stared into my eyes for a second before dropping his gaze to look at my own mouth. "You just took me by surprise, Mary." He evaded.

I swallowed and nodded, turning to start back into the trees. I pushed a thin branch out of my way and then suddenly felt his hand in mine. He took the lead, guiding me through the shadowed shrubbery, his warm fingers clenched around my palm.



The next morning it rained, as prophesied. I strolled outside before meeting the carriage-driver to go into town to buy more items for Jane's celebration. I decided to have a word with James before I departed, seeing as I would probably not get the chance to see him any later that day.

It had stopped raining only early that morning and there was still a faint chill in the air even in the middle of the afternoon. I tucked my shawl tighter around my shoulders as I strode up to him, tapping him on the shoulder. He was busy nailing a board into a post and started when I touched him.

I smiled when he faced me, "Did I scare you?"

He shrugged, smiling bashfully at himself.

"What are you doing out here at this time?"

I waved the list of necessities that I had received from its secreted place in my dress. "I have been sent into town for the day."

He reached for the list but I good-humoredly snatched it out of his reach.

"What for?" He grabbed again but I pulled my hands behind my back; he did not try to reach around me to get it.

"Food for Jane's little party."

"Little party?" His eyes glimmered wickedly, "that sounded a tad snide, Mary."

I stuck out my tongue.

He reached around me suddenly and grabbed my paper before I could react and held it to his face.

"A lot of cheese here."

"We're serving finger-foods."

"Ahhh," he frowned at me, "You have to go to Mr. Berkely for that. He's the only one who sells brie."

"I know, Mrs. Wilson told me where I was to go. I hope I do not get lost, though."

"Maybe you do. Mr. Berkely is an unpleasant man. You may end up wanting to smack him before you get what you want."

"Why is he so unpleasant?"

"He's old and ornery. Likes to argue, probably will try to find some reason you're not good enough for his cheese," I stifled an urge to laugh at the absurd comment as he paused as if considering, "maybe you should get a gentleman with you."

I rolled my eyes at him for his chivalry. "You, though, are working and I am not in the position to ask any other 'certain' person to go anywhere with me."

James smiled as if he knew something I did not. "You may not want a 'certain' other person to go with you anyway. He most likely will smack anyone unpleasant and that would hardly help matters."

I thought of the composed occupant of the house and gave James and incredulous look, "That is utterly ridiculous; he would never. He does not strike me as the type to lose his self-control easily."

James winked at me, "That is what he would like you to think. You have not heard about what happened a few years back?"

"What? When?" I had to confess to an interest in the matter. It was nosy on my part but is that not what maids are expected to do? Meddle and pry - I could do it with the best.

"There was an incident while they were in the metropolis together."

"Who?"

"Mrs. Wilson and her darling son."

"What happened?"

He picked up his hammer and swung it from hand to hand, pleased with himself that I was so enraptured with what he was relating. "A young gentleman rounded on Mrs. Wilson in the street. Harassed her; I do not know exactly what the problem was, but apparently he would not leave her alone."

"Did they know each other?"

James stopped the incessant movement he was making with the tool and looked down. "I am not sure. I assume they must have been of acquaintance." James may have loved to talk but even he knew where to draw the line with gossip and would not speculate on the nature of the relationship.

"Anyway," he continued, "this . . . bloke got riled up, started screaming at her."

"How did . . . her son respond?"

"You know him; tried to get between them, authoritatively encouraged the man to leave."

I could well imagine it; one of his perfectly executed dismissals. That masterful tone he could get when he would not be bothered to argue about something.

"That did not work?" I found it hard to believe that anybody could stand up to that cold stare and commanding nature.

James shook his head.

"So what happened?"

"Well, if you can believe, the young man in there who is the perfect picture of calm completely lost his temper. I heard it was magnificent." He got a wistful look to imply he was deeply saddened that he had not witnessed it firsthand, a very manly reaction.

"He lost his temper?" Even I could hear the disbelief in my voice.

"The offending gentleman was carted off to a doctor."

"And what happened to him?" I gestured with my chin towards the house.

"He spent the night in a holding cell."

My mouth fell open as I tried to picture that. James looked utterly satisfied with himself when he saw my reaction.

"So, he may seem very poised and collected, but poke at the right spots and he can be most hot blooded."

"Human." I murmured. "Well," I started, louder this time, "it is perfectly understandable. Some people are in desperate need of a knockdown and whoever is willing to give it to them should be commended. 'Action is eloquence'."

"I beg your pardon?"

"It's nothing of importance."

"Something from one of your books?"

"Don't patronize me." I huffed, annoyed at his tone.

James grinned at my unladylike comment and stared at me for a long while. Finally, he leaned forward and cupped my chin in his hand. "See, Mary, that is what is so wonderful about you."

"What?" I was discomfited by his contact.

"You say whatever is on your mind."

That was hardly true but no one knew that but me and I was perfectly content to keep some things to myself.

He leaned forward and brought his lips against mine. I allowed him to for a second before turning my head away awkwardly.

We stood together for a moment, with his stare on me, and my stare rested on the trees. We both looked up when we heard shoes rustling the grass.

The subject of our gossip strode up to us, squinting into the sun. I noticed that a brief look of distaste flew across his face before he assumed his customary neutral expression. He reached out his hand to James with familiarity.

"I was looking for you." He regarded me while dropping his arm back to his side. His voice was so different from James and for a moment I observed the differences in the two men. Both were tall and lean, but James was much lighter, with a warm skin tone from being in the sun and lightened blonde hair; the complete opposite of the man who just arrived.

"I was just on my way to town." I explained.

He nodded at my assertion but there was a hint of skepticism in his eyes. "My mother wanted to make some adjustments to her requests. She was worried that I would not catch you before you left." He cocked his head at me, letting me know that he was aware that I had been dallying.

"Yes," I started to walk back to the house and he fell in step next to me. I merely nodded at James as farewell, knowing that I needed to hurry. "I was not loitering."

He did not respond; walking with both hands in his pockets. I got the sudden worry that perhaps he had heard us talking about him. That could not be right though, he had arrived into our discourse entirely too late. He reached down and brushed something from his trouser leg, his jerky movement seemed to scream exasperation.

"James caught my ear and we started chatting."

"Yes, James is very good at chatting." There was a dose of venom in his words. He sounded irritated.

"You will not mention it to anyone? I was just on my way."

"No. I will not tell." The usual good-natured voice was gone, it had dropped to that silk that was so uncommon and warmed me, but this time it was filled with mocking that made mystomach drop as though I had just woken from a horrid dream where I was falling. He strode up the steps and opened the door, standing aside to let me pass.

His eyes stayed above my head. "It does seem, miss, that your wee dainty form and what you choose to do with it seems to have forced me into keeping a great deal of things to myself."

I skittered past him, mortified that he had evidently seen James' kiss, and frightened about the amount of anger that was in his voice. I entered the kitchen and turned to ask him if I had offended him in some way but he had already gone through the hall and disappeared. I hoped that he would be mollified if I gave him time.

He was not.


	12. The Course of True Love

**Chapter 10: The Course of True Love Never Did Run Smooth**

Over the next few days, he seemed to try to avoid me. He no longer came into the sitting-room while I was there and I was offered only the most perfunctory greetings. Even the lure of baked goods, and fresh fruit and cream didn't lure him near me.

He could not get far, however. His mother had assigned him the task of moving the furniture or holding it up for me as I swept or mopped under. We also still worked on the fence with James on occasion so we were still thrust together very much, but he was noticeably silent around me. Even his mother perceived the strain; her eyes would flit between the two of us nervously every time we happened to be in the company of each other.

It perturbed me a great deal, but I was not presented a lot of time to think about it. Between the cleaning and the preparations, I was exhausted. We even moved furnishings around so that the best articles were on display. We hung different curtains on all the windows; instead of the sheer white draping, we substituted very heavy tapestries that were obviously more costly but, in my opinion, less attractive.

The porches were whitened; meaning they were swept, scrubbed with water and covered with whiting. When the mixture dried, I rubbed it with flannel and then brushed it all. It was merely an aesthetic task, but Mrs. Wilson did not want to appear as if she was derelict in her housekeeping and therefore less moral than her neighbors, who surely whitened their steps _every day_.

I was also ordered to clean the range which entailed removing the fender and fire irons and raking out ashes and cinders and then riddling the cinders for future use. Then the flues were cleaned and the grease scraped off. I then polished the stove with bathbrick and paraffin, and blackleaded the iron parts. I also scraped the whole range and washed it with vinegar and water.

Saturday rolled around and I felt as if I had been torn in two. My arms ached from fixing the windows and wringing out all the linens; my back hurt from scrubbing the floors, and my hands were cracked and dry from the hot water used to clean.

But the house was spotless and I felt my first real tinge of pride in my work. The kitchen was well stocked with food for the guests that we to be here on Monday night. Grapes, cheese, wafers, apples, thinly sliced ham, champagne, tortes, chocolates, pastries, croissants, and even caviar was stuffed into the ice box and piled onto the table.

Everything was in order when I knocked on the bedchamber of Mrs. Wilson Saturday morning to help her arrange her dress and do her hair.

After I entered the well-lit room, she wagged a lightly reprimanding finger at me. "How many times do I have to tell you, Mary, you do not have to knock? Just enter."

I nodded the same as many times before and walked to stand behind her as she sat on her settee. Fluffing her hair over her shoulders, she handed me her ornately carved wooden brush.

I stroked the bristles through her hair, watching as the blonde curls separated and fell in waves down her elegant back.

She noticed me inspecting the tool. "Do you like that brush Mary?"

"It is quite beautiful." I had never seen anything like it before.

"I bought that at a little shop in Paris two summers ago."

"You visit Paris quite often." I observed.

"I roamed about over there for two months, in fact."

I thought her wording strange. "Roamed all by yourself?"

"All by my lonesome self."

"What about . . ." I thought of how to best word my inquiry as I ran the brush absently through her tresses, "Your family did not accompany you?"

"No." She regarded my reflection in the mirror as if undecided as to whether to finish her thought. She must have deemed me worthy of this information for she soon continued, "They were not privy to my whereabouts."

"You ran away?" I tried not to show too much surprise.

"I guess you could call it that." She waved her hand blithely, "I like to look at is as if I merely took a spontaneous holiday."

"Why ever for?"

"Let's just say my husband and I were . . . under a strained relationship at the time. He was very irate with me." She rose from the seat and left me standing there with the brush in my hand. She spun around the room as if dancing. "So I went to Paris and shopped and waltzed the time away until he was in a better temper."

"Did he hurt you?"

She stopped her graceful spinning and looked at me. Her manner was airy but her eyes were serious. "As much as one person can hurt another human being, which is only as much as you let them."

"But you came back. Did he change?"

"No. But we moved on."

"You feel . . . satisfied with that?"

She shrugged; a Gallic shrug, one that her son obviously picked up from her. "Paris is wonderful." She changed the subject as if it were a trifling matter for a man to be brutish. I wondered if she would feel that way if her son began following in that same pattern. I doubted it.

"What do you like the most?"

"Besides shopping? The Cathedral. Notre-Dame is stunning; such a testament to beauty and . . . spirituality. I visited there everyday."

"What is it like?"

"Wonderful, holds 6,000 people, if you can imagine it. Even though it is esteemed as a transcendent architectural accomplishment, there are all sorts of minor inconsistencies, as is common with the French."

"Like what?"

"Three of main entrances tare each shaped differently, for instance. Little things like that."

"I would love to go to Paris," I added wistfully.

"I promised you I'd take you if I went again. You must learn how to speak to the French." She grasped onto the idea like a small child would a new toy, "Hauteur is the only language they really speak, though. I am thankful that is one of the traits I have not inherited in my French blood." She walked back to the settee and patted it. "Come here, have a seat."

I sat as requested and she took up my previous spot from behind. She wielded the brush and began running it through my thick hair. She pulled it up and began wrapping it stylishly. "You have such pretty hair, sweetie. Do you mind?" she asked permission as an afterthought.

"No, not at all."

She began pinning it up. "You're such an attractive girl, Mary. Sometimes I wished I had daughter."

I did not comment that she already did. We both knew that Jane was no substitute for a real daughter. I wanted to ask if she meant she wished she'd had a daughter _instead_ of a son but did not voice it.

"Where is your father, Mary?" she inquired.

"He died when I was young."

"How?"

"Some factory accident. My mum did not give me details - perhaps I do not want any."

"Men control you in life and even more so in death. My first husband died. You can imagine trying to raise two sons all on your own."

"You have an older son, is that right?" I said softly, trying not to flinch as the pins lodged tightly in my hair.

"Yes, he is seven-and-twenty this year."

"Where is he?"

"Off doing something officious. I am not quite sure. He was much harder to deal with - much like talking to a brick wall sometimes." She finished pinning my curls and then looked at me much like a doctor examining a patient. "Would you like some lip rouge?"

I shrugged and let her apply it, when she leaned back to examine her work I could not help but comment, "Are you sure you want a daughter, ma'am, or a doll?"

She merely laughed in that merry way of hers and smoothed the top of my hair.

I made my way down the staircase into the foyer after I had been done up by the hands of Mrs. Wilson. He was standing in the foyer, having evidently roused himself from the black mood he had been in enough to shift through the telegrams and correspondents on the end table. My mother was standing next to him, a hand on his arm, asking where I was.

Before he could answer her, he looked up from the unopened envelope he was examining and his tired and morose eyes caught sight of me. "Have you fallen into a vat of lip-rouge and hair-brushes, Mary?" His voice was icily cold.

"Your mother apparently was of the opinion that my, as you say, 'dainty form' could be much daintier with a little effort." I could not help the bitter edge that permeated my words.

"Mary!" my mother reprimanded, not at all oblivious to the venom in my tone.

His eyes narrowed at me, but I could not tell if it were from confusion or anger. He tossed the packet back onto the table and started out of the room.

"I am not quite certain that is possible," he demurred as he passed me and I was left wondering if that remark had been a compliment or a scorn.

"Mary," my mother spoke in hushed tones even though he was long gone, "you must not speak to a gentleman in such an inhospitable nature."

I came down the steps and rearranged my collar at my neck, "Well, when I come across a gentleman than I will remember to heed that advice."

"Mary!"

I came to her and leaned forward to peck her on the cheek reassuringly, "Do not worry mum; I can handle him."

She caught my chin in her hand before I could plant my kiss. Her unfocused eyes settled on me for an uncomfortably clear moment. "People are not things for you to handle Mary."

I clenched my jaw and then kissed her, "Some people are."

Sundays were delightful for me. I was left to my own devices for the most of the day as the family, excluding the son (contrary person that he was), went for their weekly religious services. Devout Catholics that they were, they were forced to worship quietly. I felt a twinge of pity for them but sympathy was something I strove to avoid for the most part.

I arose early this Sunday even though it was my off day to brush my lady's hair. I found some weird comfort in this task. She often spoke of things that I had a shy interest in - French fashion, gossip, and even politics if her husband wasn't around. After our revealing and warm talk yesterday, I felt closer to her than I thought she would allow.

After hearing the door close and wheels of the hansom cab rattle off, I checked to be sure my mum, who had fallen ill a few days before, was still resting peacefully before making my way to the bath.

Settling into the warm water, I relaxed and let my muscles unwind. A week's worth of hard work and cleaning was not so easily washed away with the basin of water I was allowed on the other days of the week; only a soak in the tub seemed to truly do the job. This week had also been especially trying with all the work going into this party for Jane.

I hated to admit to myself, though, that there was a tension in my shoulder from something other than physical labor. I was still not on speaking terms with a certain male member of the household and I could not for the life of me fathom why. With every day that passed that I received no cordial greeting or the usual friendly words, the pull in between my shoulder seemed to tighten and I knew that it had nothing to do with muscle strain. I ducked my head under the water in an attempt to wash these frustrating thoughts away until a time when, perhaps, I could decide on a solution to them. I broke the surface and sighed.

Lifting a glistening leg out of the bathtub, I peered closely at my calf. I wondered if it were exceptional in any way. I had never seen any other lady's bare legs, except my mum's, of course. I knew I wasn't supposed to think of such things - of how certain parts of me would look to other people. I guess that is why we kept them covered. Even piano legs had to be wrapped up because of the resemblance that they bore to lady's extremities. I twisted my leg around to examine it. It didn't really look like a piano leg. At least, I hoped it didn't. I never really found piano legs to be particularly attractive and I was fairly certain that men didn't either. I was inclined to agree that they might have found the legs of women to be eye-catching, though.

Moving my head forward a little too quickly suddenly caused my vision to blur and, for an unsettling minute, I saw everything it twos. Shaking my head to clear it did not help the way I _thought _it would. Before everything went black, I felt something hard strike my arm.

When I opened my eyes - a mere second later, I'm sure - everything was indistinct and fuzzy and I had the definite impression that I was floating. I gasped, began sucking down water through my nose and mouth at an alarming pace.

I started to panic. I knew I needed to calm down, knew it because my mind was screaming it at me. But I couldn't muster up enough strength in my arms to propel myself to the surface. And then, suddenly, something was holding me, preventing me from saving myself and I started to struggle against it. I tried to reach my hand up to strike out. But my arms were pinned. Opening my mouth to call out for help was not a wise idea - the feeling of warm water rushing down my throat was gagging - and right before I blacked out from the lack of oxygen I was pulled violently up.

Racking coughs welled up in my chest as I took in much needed air. I pushed back my wet hair from my eyes. I noticed that the table next to the bathtub was knocked over. I also noticed that I was looking over someone's shoulder. The bathtub? Was I in the bathroom?

Despite the dizziness that was leaving me a tad disoriented, I managed to pull my head back to look into the face of the mysterious person who had me in such a tight hug.

Two familiar eyes stared back at me, filled with uncharacteristic worry.

"Are you alright?" He _sounded _worried too. I had never heard that tone from him before.

I pushed lightly against his chest, "Yes, yes. Why would I be anything but alright?" I still wasn't quite sure where I was at or why he, who just a day before was treating me as if I had the plague, was looking at me with his face full of worry . . . and something else that I couldn't put my finger on.

He would not let go of me though and I pushed harder against him, "Let go."

"Wait." He seemed as though he were trying to get a better hold of me with one arm.

"Why? What are you doing here?" The words were rushing out of my mouth but he did not respond; he merely tightened his hold on me as one of his arm disappeared to grope around next to him for a robe that lay near by.

It was then that I caught sight of my discarded dress and boots lying on the floor. The situation hit me and I felt a hot blush rise all over. He was trying to allow me some privacy by looking away, but I was already too embarrassed to appreciate it.

He finally got a hold of what he was reaching for and with a quick show of strength he righted himself and lifted me to a standing position. I felt the warm water of my bath slide rapidly down me before he'd swiftly wrapped the soft robe around my shoulders and held it together in front. He stepped away from me, still clasping the robe closed with one fist. His shirt was completely soaked through from holding me. The dampness pulled at the collar, dragging it down to reveal the top of his chest. His skin showed through the fabric all the way to his stomach and over his forearms. I stared at him in my disorientation and the world spun. He grabbed me before I almost collapsed on my shaky feet.

As he lifted me out of the tub I couldn't help but irrelevantly wonder if he thought my legs looked like a piano's.

I couldn't seem to catch my balance and he held onto me, though I protested against it. "You shouldn't be in here," I choked, my vision already fading in and out sickeningly.

"You cannot stand on your own." He supported me with his arms, holding the robe closed where my hand was slipping. "Come, you have to lie down."

"No, I can manage." In my distress, I began to sob. "You shouldn't be here, it isn't proper." My body ached all over and I knew if he let me go, I wouldn't stay upright. But I could only think of what would happen if the family saw this. He started to guide me to the hall, though my limpness, coupled with my emotional weeping, hindered him considerably.

"You can't take me to my room. You can't go in my room." I tried to wipe away my tears, but could not keep hold of the robe if I did so.

"It will be our secret."

"No, my mum will see." My head started to lull, and I knew I was about to slip away from consciousness.

"Are you about to faint on me, Mary?" he asked worriedly and quickened his step. We were nearing my chamber.

"Perhaps," I responded sluggishly.

"Well, that may be a bit inconvenient for me, you see, so if you could strive to stay awake, it would make things much easier." He was trying to soften the worry in his voice with a bit of his peculiar dry humor, but I could hear the almost desperate edge of pleading wrapping around each of his words. He nudged my door open with his foot and we stumbled in, waking my mother. She sat up, peering at us sleepily but I could not focus on her face.

"Mary! What happened?" She came and took hold of my other shoulder and together they guided me down onto the bed, wet and unclothed beneath the large robe. I felt a cool wind against my thigh as I settled down but my mother efficiently covered me with the quilt.

I heard the beginning of a hushed conversation between them but my pounding head and sore limbs prevented me from catching any of it before falling fast asleep.


	13. Note

Hello there!! Just wanted to say that I am sorry for the delay. I was having some issues with the formatting while copying chapters from the original documents to , so I was a little like "ugh" whenever I though about having to do all it manually. But I got it figured out now!

BTW, I just want to say that I though the new movie was great - Robert Downey Jr. made a spectacular Holmes and the feel of is was more in the vein of what I always imagined Holmes to be. I hope it gets more people interested in the Great Detectice - we need some new blood.


	14. A note from the author please read

Dear loyal readers, as some of you may know, my books are for sale at lulu (dot) com - a selfpublishing site. From now until January 31, they are having a contest for the best selling author to recieve a cash prize and free publicity from their site. So if any of you were contemplating purchasing any of my work, now would be an ideal time to do so :).

Thank you so much for reading!


	15. Is Whispering Nothing?

Chapter 11: Is Whispering Nothing?

Jane lent me a dress for the party, if you could call it that. She was a cleverly devious girl. It was utterly beautiful, a light blue sheer chiffon over a silk gown. White embroidery adorned the cuffs and neckline; the low and revealing neckline.

At first I was highly confused by this choice for me. I had always detected a hint of jealousy towards me from the daughter of the house. But here she was donning me in a plunging décolleté which could only succeed in drawing attention. I had no corset to wear under it and she was very aware of it.

It was a manipulative maneuver, though, putting me on display. As a maid and as a naturally simple girl, it was a wonderful way of making me uncomfortable.

I wasn't kowtowing to her though I wore the dress without complaint. It fit perfectly and I hoped by the end of the night, she would regret her decision.

The guests began arriving just at five in the evening. I was paid no attention to for the most part, except one or two glances down my neckline by indiscreet gentlemen, and a very scary moment when Mr. Finch had tried to follow me into the kitchen, only to discover, thankfully, that people wandered through there freely.

There was no dinner being served; the party was too large. My mother was still feeling unwell so I delegated the coat-handling to her, and I was left all to myself to carry the platters of hors d'oeuvres and glass upon glass of bubbly champagne.

I made a few circles, keeping my mouth shut as the genteel class paid no regard to me, even as I offered them refreshments. Manners and class apparently do not go hand in hand. Or, maybe, manners are just not considered manners unless they are directed at someone worthy.

I did not allow it to trouble me, though. I was used to being invisible, having gone through many jobs with my mother as such.

I retreated to the long table set up at the wall and set down my serving-tray. I surveyed the room, seeing that nobody was in need of another glass. The high-class have an interesting way of conversing with one another in large groups – very nearly a low hum. The pitch of the voice never changes, no matter the amount of importance of what is being said.

Someone walked up next to me and my hand reached for a glass instinctively. When I turned to hand it to the stranger, I realized he was no stranger at all.

He took the glass, though he scrunched his face up for a moment in distaste. He took a sip, his grey eyes looking at me over the rim.

"Are you enjoying yourself, sir?" I did not know what else to say to him. After our encounter yesterday, I had not seen him. I figured he was avoiding me, either still displeased with me, or embarrassed about what he had seen.

His eyes twinkled at me now, though. He considered before answering, "No."

I surveyed the room again as I replied, "The finest of your class is here. I find it hard to believe that you are not having a happy time."

He put his hand on the table behind me, casually resting his weight on his arm. His chest brushed my shoulder but I did not react. I could feel the warmth from him and I waited a beat before looking up.

"It is not an accomplishment to be the finest of my class." He gave me a crooked smile and kept his position leaning into me. My experience, so far, this night with gentlemen leaning into me made me wonder for a second if he were merely trying to get a better view of my décolleté. I brushed that thought aside; he did not seem cut from that sort of cloth and I would not allow myself to suspect him of so cheap a trick. He was not even looking at me now; his eyes gliding over the people in the room.

My shoulder was huddled under his arm and I felt myself gravitate towards him more. He did not seem to notice my cuddling and continued to sip his champagne, though he kept making faces to show he was not fond of it. I knew he preferred red wines.

My performance the previous day in the bath must have erased any anger he was feeling towards me. Concern has that way of blocking out grudges. I was not going to ask him now what the matter was. I was simply happy that he was treating me as though I was again worthy of his attention.

"Look at them." He nudged his chin in direction of the crowd, "All of them like parrots; all imitating, all repeating things that have already been said a million times before, never saying what they really mean."

"And you always say exactly what you mean?" I was goading him.

He leaned even further into me to whisper in my ear, "No, but I always know what I mean, even if I do not enlighten others."

"Is that better?"

He did not answer though I waited, observing his profile. He was not dressed as the others. He wore a well-made suit of the deepest blue, but no coat or hat. He was dressed-down, intentionally. His hair was uncharacteristically smoothed back, defining and drawing attention to his sharp features, the cut of his jaw. He looked more handsome than I had ever seen him; there was a stoic masculinity about him with is hair in that manner and the well-fitting morning-suit. I had to look away, though I was not certain why.

He shifted his shoulder and nudged me in the back nonchalantly. "Do you see that man over there?" he gestured discreetly to a man in the corner, speaking to his mother. A young woman was on his arm, but I could not tell if she was his wife or not.

I nodded.

"That is Mr. Norton."

"And his wife?"

"No, his wife is at home sick. That is his wife's sister. She often accompanies him to these things in place of his wife."

"Is that what you wanted to draw to my attention?"

"She does many things in place of his wife."

I frowned sharply at him, "How do you know that?"

He tapped his nose twice, "Magic."

"You have no way of proving that."

He smiled, not at all perturbed by my disbelief. "I can also not prove that Miss Cochrane over there," he nodded to a young, handsome woman with a revealing dress of the deepest crimson, "went on an extended holiday for five months, not because of exhaustion, but because of a certain 'unwanted' development."

"You are impossible."

He beamed; his smile impish, "It is the truth. The bouncing baby . . ." he squinted his eyes at her as if looking for an answer, "boy is with some relatives in Florence."

"And how do you know that?"

He brought the glass to his lips but did not drink. He murmured out of the corner of his mouth, "The most obvious clue would actually be . . . her ample endowments."

I glanced back at the lady, noticing her bosom almost overflowing from her gown. She was indeed ample. "Is that unusual?"

"If you had seen her a year ago, you would notice how unusual."

I did not much care for the thought of him noticing any woman's 'endowments' and decided to change the subject. I pointed out a gentleman coming in our direction, "How about that man? Any great secrets?"

"Mr. Godwin? None, except that he is a poor boxer." He raised his voice slightly so that the man, who was now quite close to us, could hear him.

The older gentleman made his way through a few people and stood beside us, "I've gotten in a few good jabs at you son. Do not forget that." He was middle-aged; slender with thinning grey hair. His eyes were warm, though, and I could tell he had been a very handsome man at one time.

My companion smiled genially, "Yes, I believe that was right before I knocked you out, however."

A woman appeared at the side of the Mr. Godwin. "Knocked who out?"

Both men appeared to be uneasy as the woman slipped her arm around Mr. Godwin's waist. She frowned suspiciously at them both, "Are you two men talking about boxing?"

The older man kissed her on the forehead, "Do not worry yourself, dear, we are perfectly responsible men."

She glared at the younger man next to me, her attractive face scrunched up pleasantly. "Are you encouraging my husband to take part in that horrible sport?"

He gave her an exaggerated shrug in response and she cuffed him on the arm with her fan in a maternal fashion. She then leaned forward and pecked him on the cheek.

"It's nice to see you, son."

To my surprise, he kissed her back, smiling sincerely at her. "It is nice to see you also, ma'am. I am surprised though, considering how my father feels about your husband." He directed his attention back to the man, "How did you worm your way into getting an invitation, Godwin?"

"You mother passed one on inconspicuously. Your father wasn't aware and now he knows better than to cause a scene. I am sure your mum will have an earful after tonight, though, about me and my club, with our effeminate ways and socialist leanings."

My companion cracked a smile at this last remark, while Mrs. Godwin rolled her eyes. "Dear, must you make such inappropriate comments while we're in public?"

"There is no one around to offend."

"What about me?" was his wife's curt response.

He nestled her cheek, "You would not have married me if you were so offended."

She blushed; a becoming look and I saw my companion appraise them through narrowed eyes. He seemed strangely fascinated by their domestic bliss and only looked away after shaking his head clear of whatever thoughts he was having.

"John, we are making our friends here uncomfortable," she rebuked her husband, though it was said without much conviction.

"Who said anyone here is friends?" Mr. Godwin joked good-naturedly. His wife threw her head back and laughed merrily; it was a real laugh, as sweet as music.

My companion's grey eyes traveled over her exposed slender and elegant neck for a moment before he tore his eyes away to the rest of the crowd. I felt my chest tighten at the look I had seen; it was a man's look, one that I never associated with him before. I did not like it.

He seemed to take notice of me again, as if I had disappeared and reappeared. I found it hard to believe that he had forgotten me, considering he was still hovering over me very closely.

"I beg your pardon," he gestured to me with his champagne glass. I could sense his hand rising to touch me in the small of my back - the warmth of his fingers so hot I thought I could feel them through my layers of fabric but perhaps I was imagining it - but it dropped back down to the table without making contact. "I forgot my manners. This is Mary."

Mrs. Godwin peered into my face, "Are you the daughter of that lovely woman taking coats at the door?"

I nodded, feeling better now that the threesome was no longer ignoring me.

"My you are an exquisite girl, entirely too charming to be a maid," she continued, then cast a sly glance at the young man next to me, "I can see now why you have rooted yourself to this spot, lad. Mighty good taste you have."

My mouth fell open at her suggestion but he, on the other hand, simply responded dryly, "Very observant of you, ma'am. Nothing gets past you."

They all smiled. I could not help feeling that it was at my expense. I tried to convince myself that embarrassment was the only reason for the large blush that started to spread from my chest all the way to my cheeks.

He, of course, noticed first. He angled his head to look at me, even after I lowered my own to avoid his gaze. "Are you alright, Mary?"

I brought my hand up to my face, trying unsuccessfully to look blasé. "I am fine, thank you." I could not will myself to stop flushing.

He bent his head down to peer at my face, "Are you sure?"

His proximity only made me feel even warmer and I started to fan myself. "Well, I do think I may need some air."

He smiled disbelievingly, "Some air? Mary," he brought his lips to my ear, "You're flushed."

I scoffed at him and jerked away, embarrassed, putting some champagne glasses onto my tray. Hefting it up onto my shoulder, I began to walk away from them, "I have been relaxed too long. I have to attend to the guests."

He smirked.

Infuriated, I turned away, but not before seeing Mrs. Godwin's discerning smile.

An hour later my mother woke up as the guest took up dancing in the medium sized ballroom. She insisted I take a break as she took over the duties. I was still seething with humiliation and skulked off to the library to fume.

He was there. Of course.

I stood in the doorway, watching him as he either didn't notice me or pretended to ignore me. He was lying on the top of the grand piano, which would have sent his mother into a faint, eating an apple. He continued to stare at the ceiling as I frowned at him, wishing I could do damage with a look.

"Could you close the door behind you?" he finally asked, still not raising his head to look at me. My jaw clenched in anger, his abruptness bordering on unkindness in my opinion. Could he not even acknowledge that I was upset with him? Or maybe he didn't notice. I remedied that by letting the door slam unnecessarily loud behind me. He started and finally peered at me, his apple halfway to his mouth. I crossed my arms and waited. The music from the ballroom wafted into our space, muffled a bit but still clear enough to recognize the tune.

He propped himself up on his elbows, still sprawled out in the most relaxed manner. His jacket was off and his cufflinks and collar undone. His knees were bent, his feet flat on the polished wood. I kept my eyes on his face, though I was inexplicably tempted to let my eyes wander.

"Is something the matter?" he demanded, his voice half concerned but half annoyed by my performance.

"Perhaps," I spat out. Behaving like a lady was of no importance to me. I was angry about how he had treated me.

He frowned, "Are you mad at me?" He spoke condescendingly, as if he knew that there was no valid reason for me to be.

"Perhaps," I repeated. He stared, the rise and fall of his chest the only movement from him. I had confused him and I felt strangely satisfied by it.

He abruptly moved, sliding his feet to the edge and sitting upright. He muttered something about women that I ignored before addressing me more civilly, "Would you care to tell me what it is I have done?"

I was about to demand that he work it out himself, but somehow suspected that he would only be bothered so far by my hurt feelings before he shut me out and refused to be concerned. "You humiliated me on purpose." I put my hands on my hips, unaware that my dress was too low cut for me to.

I expected him to plead ignorance but his eyes focused and his face became alert. It angered me even more that he knew what I meant, as if he had done it intentionally. "I was just teasing you."

"I am not a child. Don't tease me . . . especially not in front of respectable people. It wasn't proper of you and you know it." His expression didn't change, though his eyes did wander hastily over me at the word "respectable" as if measuring up how I compared.

"And do not behave as if you know what I am thinking at all time," I continued.

"I am sorry." The statement was neutral, its sincerity inscrutable.

"I don't want to talk to you anymore." I sat at the piano. He smiled at my contradictory action but wisely chose not to comment.

"You shouldn't be sitting on the piano," I snapped, "I just dusted it. And why are you in here anyway?"  
He slid off the piano and came to sit next to me on the small bench. I moved away from him, huffing disgustedly. I was relieved, though, when he didn't move away. I was mad but I didn't want him to go - didn't want him to get away that easily.

He smelled faintly of lavender. Jane had been after him again.

"I was listening to the music," he answered.

"You could listen to it out there."

"I like the phonograph better - live music annoys me." I turned my head to look at him, startled by the illogic of his words. My fingers began pressing random keys on the piano as I tried to work out his statement.

"So how does it help to come in here?"

"It's muffled." It still didn't make any sense. He grabbed my hands, flinching at the discordant notes I was producing and then gazed into the fire, his hand still holding mine. We stayed that way for a bit before he directed his attention at my captured fingers, stroking them slowly. I started to pull my hand away as my arm twitched in surprise but he held fast.

"What are you doing?" I breathed, sounding more irritated than I was.

"Looking at your hands," he muttered, his attention intent on my fingers and palm, feeling my hand and putting his face close to it as if it was some intriguing science experiment.

"I can see that, but why?"

"Hands say a great deal about a person," he stated firmly, still engrossed as I unconsciously pulled my hand closer to my stomach to look at what he was doing. My curiosity won out even as I noticed that his head was now dangerously close to my chest as he bent over, his attention rapt. My eyes drifted to the back of his head, the gaslight casting soft burgundy lights through his dark hair.

"And what do my hands say?" I asked, humoring him and enjoying the opportunity.

He didn't respond for a while, feeling between my fingers and rubbing the soft flesh of my palm. I watched him for a while as he continued to examine me minutely, turning my hand over a few times. When he ran the edge of his fingernail down one of the lines in the center of my palm, my fingers curled instinctively, either to push the feeling away or to hold it close. He flattened my hand again without comment, though he must have felt it.

"You have a callous here. . ." he trailed off, and bent over more, his face almost in my lap. He was so close his breath slipped around my skin, crawling across my palm and up my fingers, dissipating before it could touch the fingertips. I resisted the sudden, almost irresistible urge to move my hand closer, so close that his mouth was pressed against the lines and scars of my flesh. But that would have been unseemly and he seemed oblivious to anything around him except my submissive fingers.

I stared at the tie on the back of his vest, which was slightly askew, and then at the collar of his shirt; he'd removed his cravat to unbutton and push it away from his strong and elegant neck. He hadn't kept up on his beard; the hair still dark lining his jaw but a light shadow had developed on his cheeks and across the soft underside of his chin. His hair was disheveled and a few stray strands of his sideburn were out of place, twirling away from his ear.

Everything about him was just so lovely.

"From sewing." His words startled me from my thoughts and I was obliged to take a moment to place what he meant. "Your calluses are from sewing."

"Yes," I affirmed, not trusting my voice to say any more. He pulled my hand towards him, laying it on his thigh and grabbing my wrist. My mouth flew open at his bold gesture but he didn't notice. I stared at the ceiling, offering a silent prayer that no one walked in to see him half-dressed with my hand in his lap.

He rotated my wrist around and pushed my fingers here and there a bit before scrunching up his eyebrows. "You're really left-handed."

The fact that I was touching his thigh was forgotten for a moment. "How did you know that?"

"Why don't you use your left hand?" he asked, ignored my inquiry.

"Because the sewing machines worked better if you used your right hand."

He started pressing his fingernails in the palm of my hand gently. "If you used a machine, why do you have a callous?"

"Details were sown by hand."

"Do many girls force themselves to use their right hand?"

I shrugged, "I don't know."

"Mmmm . . ."

I leaned over to look at what he was doing. "What are you looking at now?"

"I'm counting the lines on your palm."

"Why?"

"Because I'm fond of counting things."

I straightened up and sighed, "I thought there was a point."

He laughed, which was the sweetest sound when it was genuine. "What? Did you think I'd read you your fortune?"

"I wouldn't be surprised if you claimed to be able to," I replied drolly. He frowned and turned to glare at me, only then noticing how close he was to my chest. His gaze slid away awkwardly to stare at some distant point in the room. He straightened up and took my wrist, his other hand running up my arm to curl around my elbow. His nails tickled the sensitive side of my arm and I jerked away. He smiled knowingly at me but, thankfully, let me be.

He continued to stroke my arm absently, "Your hands don't say much about you."

"They told you I was a seamstress and left-handed," I reminded.

"And that you're ticklish," he teased, "but they don't tell me anything about you."

"If you want to know someone, you have to talk to them. You can't merely look at their hands, sir."

"Things would be so much simpler, though," he lamented jokingly. "But," his tone becoming serious, "Your hands are misleading."

"How so?"

"Your skin is soft," he murmured gently, tracing circles on the back of my hand with his thumb. I blushed furiously at his words and actions. "If I didn't know you," he resumed without noting the reddening of my cheeks, "I might even be led to believe you were a lad-" he caught himself, stumbling ungracefully over his sentence in a way that was unlike him. He looked away, upset at his own words, perhaps even more so than I was. I squeezed his hand reassuringly.

"That is alright," I murmured, "I imagine that I prefer not to be a lady." I confessed boldly, though my voice dropped.

"And why is that?"

"They live to please themselves. The goal of the 'lady' is simply to live in vanity. I never understand women who prefer to be deluded and treated as children . . . They spend their life learning only the things that will earn them a husband and attain to marriage and continue to behave as a child would - painting, sewing, lauding their husbands and being generally useless."

His face had grown tight as my tirade wound down. "Of course," I quickly amended, "I do not speak of your mother. She is surely a rare woman."

He smiled at me, and his eyes held none of the reproach or disappointment that I expected to see. "I should read you Wollstonecraft," he murmured.

"Who?"

"A wonderful woman writer whose views I always admired, though I wouldn't admit it publicly." He smiled reassuringly at me, "And I assure you that my mother is indeed a rare woman. She is highly educated in many areas that women are not normally allowed because her parents were accepting of her intellect and curiosity. My father nurtured it as well, and enjoyed having such a strong mind to interact with. Nonetheless, there are still some ways in which I believe my mother complies still to her society-given role . . .she is still weak in many ways," he trailed off.

"How so?" I asked gently.

He stroked my hand for a while, staring away from me and ignoring my question. He ran a quick hand over his face as if to wipe away whatever it was that was running through his mind and stood from the bench, guiding me up. "Do you want to dance?"

I gaped as he pulled me around the edge of the bench, persistently drawing me towards him. I wanted him to answer me, but knew I could not push him.

Instead, I resisted. "I'm mad at you," I reminded, albeit feebly.

"No, you're not." He grasped my arms and attempted step in close to me.

I leaned back.

"I thought you said you couldn't dance?"

"I lied."

"Do you lie a lot?"

"Of course."

I gave him a humoring smile and started to turn to leave. He grabbed my arm, unexpectedly and a bit roughly. But when I turned quick to see what he was thinking, his look was soft.

"We're not done," he breathed. There was something rough but inviting in his tone. I had no idea what he was talking about. He slipped his hand to my back and shoved me towards him unfortunately at the exact same time I stopped resisting him. I exhaled as my chest hit his roughly, surprising us both. He was much taller than me and my face, for an unnerving moment, had come dangerously close to his neck. My mind reeled as he pulled away, moving my arm from around his waist, where they had circled of their own accord, and placing them where they were supposed to be for a proper dance. He was warm, and it reminded me of the small patch of sheet at the foot of my bed that was heated by the sun every morning.

He took my hand in his and slid his other arm around my waist. He held me loosely, except where his fingers dug into my side, kneading my soft flesh with restraint.

"Do you know how to dance?" he asked, his voice low since he was so close to my ear.

Goosebumps jumped up on my arms, my shoulders, almost everywhere, either because I was embarrassed or nervous or both - I don't know. I shook my head at him and I could feel him smile into my hair.

When he spoke again, his voice was more detached, restrained, "You have so much to learn."


	16. When Shall We Three Meet Again?

Chapter 12: When Shall We Three Meet Again?

There was, needless to say, a great deal of cleaning to be done the next morning. I awoke a little after four, subsisting on three cups of strong black coffee and five hours of sleep as I went about my work. I let my mother rest - her headache had persisted tenaciously throughout the night and robbed her of any respite. We also discovered, to our dismay, that her migraines seemed to hamper her vision to the point of impairment. She would be of no help to me and so it seemed best to leave her be, snuggled into the blankets and squirming in pain despite the whiskey I had snuck to her before she retired.

It was a half past six when I finally returned the kitchen to a picture of relative normalcy. The sun spilled into the windows, half pink and strongly yellow with the rising sun. It was a peaceful moment of solitude and beauty that I melted into as I lazily shook the kitchen mat off the edge of the back porch, watching the heather fields in the distance take on a rainbow of colors as the columns of light shifted leisurely over them. The bees were awake, buzzing happily as they worked. I had finally settled into finding the noise relaxing.

I didn't remember much about Ireland but my mind stored a few vivid and tranquil images that I hoarded and clutched onto like treasure. They were a patchwork of pictures, the sparkling dusks and dawns, the small cottage that were we secluded in those first few months after my father's death, and mostly the lagoon that surrounded our home that I could see from the window of my small room, drowsy with motion and reflecting every color of its surroundings.

I was hit with a bittersweet feeling of nostalgia as I peered out into the distance and thought fondly of my younger days, before Whitechapel and tedious work.

The instant was abruptly interrupted by a severe voice behind me, as glossy and slithery as a snake, and just as deceptive.

"Good day, Miss Kelly."

I turned to face Mr. Finch as he stood on the porch, blocking my way back into the house, his hands clasped behind his back in a falsely benign manner.

I bowed slightly, keeping my eyes trained on him even as I had to squint as the sun rose higher above horizon. "How do you do, Mr. Finch?"

I wanted to ask him what in heaven's name he was doing at the house at this hour, even demand to know who had permitted him entrance. I knew, however, that he was allowed free roam of the house merely from inference that he would soon be joining the family. This was a thought that disturbed me a great deal, though I suppose that would be natural noting our few encounters.

He shrugged, "Quite well, considering . . ." he was dressed well, his shoes polished to the point of brilliance, his suit cut finely to his form, the starched white of his shirt peeking out at his collar and passed the cuffs of his raven black morning jacket. He was dressed very much as the young master usually did, that is, before he lost focus and allowed himself to become unkempt.

In fact, there was a great deal about him that reminded me of the young master, though he was a pale comparison, despite his physical appeal. He was tall, but not quite as tall, broad-chest and solid, though not quite as broad-chest and solid. His hair was dark but not as unusually black as the young masters; his eyes were dark but did not change color, his skin was pale but not as creamy and hale; his lips pleasant though not as . . . pleasing.

There was one similarity that struck me the most - that almost vibrating hum of passion and intensity that seemed to slide beneath the surface of them, clearly seen about the mouth and in the eyes. Though, Mr. Finch's emotions seemed to be turned mostly inward, concerned only with himself and his own desires.

I was so busy lost in my thoughts that I failed to rise to his bait and ask him to elaborate. He continued on, persistent, "I am an engaged man."

"Is that so?" I stated. Even this now affianced situation did not relax me into lowering the mat that I had raised to my chest, holding the object unnaturally high for a comfortable conversation.

"Yes, I proposed last night."

I flattened my tongue, biting down on both fleshy sides to prevent myself from speaking; from asking him if his proposal took place before or after he'd tried to follow me into a secluded area of the house. Instead, I smiled weakly and congratulated him.

He took a step towards me, which caused my heart to jerk in nervousness. I weighed my options. I could run to James' hunt but didn't think I could outpace him. If I screamed, I did not think I would be heard inside through the thick doors of the bedchambers.

I was thoroughly alone and dependent on myself to keep him away from me. I raised the rug a little more, signaling my remoteness and resistance. "If you wish to speak to Jane, I do not think she will be awake for a few more hours. Perhaps if you came back around eight, you could breakfast with the family." I offered.

He smiled crookedly. It wasn't half as charming as some other crooked smiles I had seen. "I didn't come to see her but I thank you for your felicitations. I suppose a betrothal was only natural as it is her first season. It's a fine match, if I am permitted to say so."

I nodded slowly.

"Actually, I was thinking of delivering her some Belgian chocolates and perhaps a bit of poetry. Women tend to enjoy it, no doubt?"

Depends on who is speaking it.

I nodded again.

"Do you know of any poems that may strike her delicate heart?"

I took a deep breath and pondered it, not willing to admit ignorance in front of him because I knew he was attempting to embarrass me. "'An Invite to Eternity' may be sufficient, though it is lengthy."

He looked mildly surprised, "That's about death."

"It's about love lasting till death, actually."

He eyed me appreciatively, "Yes, I suppose death can be terribly romantic."

"I thought so," I replied, attempting to sound neutral.

I glanced behind me; he was getting closer and I knew I may have to retreat. I was on the edge of the steps, and my only way of escape was into the orchard. I did not want to be caught there, between the house and the hut, too far away from both to be protected by them.

"How do you know so much about poetry? A lady who can quote John Clare and read prose is not usually the ones you expect to see hanging the laundry in the garden." When I looked disinclined to answer he lifted his chin knowingly and smiled at me, "Ah, I see. You should feel flattered my girl, poetry is usually reserved for the girls worth the most effort. A few uprooted roses and some wine would usually be sufficient to make most women agreeable."

I pursed my lips angrily, not at all lost as to his meaning. "I am perfectly capable of reading on my own, sir. And if any poetry is recited to me, it is for nothing more than mutual appreciation of the power of the written word. And I am sure most men would find your simplification of their actions quite insulting."

He continued to smile maddeningly at me, coming closer. "Which men? The ones that recite poetry or the ones that pour wine?"

I made the mistake of letting my eyes clench shut in anger for a moment and when I opened them, he was directly in front of me, his mouth descending onto mine.

I took a step to the left, my boot slipping to the side and catching me off balance. I had begun to raise my right knee up, in a hearty attempt to knee him where it would cause the most damage but I wobbled and forgot my footing, feeling myself lose the steps and tumble off the side.

Mr. Finch grabbed my sleeve, either in an attempt to catch me or merely trying to grope me as I went down, and only succeeded in causing me to swing around, landing on the hard dirt next to the roses with a loud thud; my arm and side rattling with the contact. I curled up instinctively in pain, rolling onto my stomach and clutched my arm, stinging with soon to form bruises and scratches from the rose thorns. I inhaled sharply, which caused me to cough as unsettled dirt flew into my nose and into my mouth.

I gained my equilibrium quickly and rolled to my back, realizing my vulnerable position. He was coming down the steps at me, trying to hide a patronizing smile with false concern. I propped up on my elbows, prepared to scuttle away from him but he hadn't time to reach me before he was grabbed from behind and shoved down into the dirt with me, his expensive suit probably soiled beyond repair.

My rescuer, clad in only a pair of loose linen trousers and a lawn shirt that was barely buttoned, lifted Mr. Finch off the ground without effort and wordlessly "escorted" him back into the house. I sat on the ground for a moment, listening to the fading sound of footsteps. After a moment of silence, I pushed myself to standing position. He came out as I was stepping onto the first step, looking irritated.

"Are you alright?" he snapped at me.

"Fine," I murmured.

His features softened as he took my hand and led me up to the steps, "You're all scratched up."

I coughed into the crook of my elbow, my lungs still disturbed by dust. "I'm fine."

He frowned at my repetition but didn't comment, pulling me into the kitchen and settling me onto a stool. He bustled about the room for a moment, filling a basin with water and retrieving some brandy from the cupboard. I watched him as he gathered the things and brought them to the table, pulling a stool out with his toe and sitting in front of me, so close that my knees were between his own.

I coughed again, though it was more from uneasiness than dust. He soaked a small patch of linen and wrung it out with his strong hands. When the cool material touched my cheek, I sucked my breath in and shifted, attempting to put some distance between us. The sensation was relaxing and warming, conjuring up an awareness that I wasn't quite used to. As he cleaned my face of soil, his brow furrowed and his mouth open in concentration, I could see down his shirt, which was still unbuttoned a bit as if he had merely thrown it on before rushing down to the kitchen, and eyed the smattering of dark hair that disappeared into the white linen.

After a few moments, as I grew use to the feel of the soft and moist rag running languidly over my chin and cheeks, I asked him how he had known I needed help.

"I could hear him down here. His tread is distinct."

"I didn't know you could hear into the kitchen."

He smiled slightly, though it seemed forced, "The floors aren't that thick. I can hear you and your mum down here every morning."

I examined his face as he cleaned my nose, letting the rag run over my lips for a second, which persuaded my mouth to open inexplicably. "Are you upset with me?" I asked after a length.

He clenched his jaw and dipped the rag back into the basin, the water and rag slapping loudly in the bowl as they met each other. He wrung it out with more force than necessary. "I told you to call me if this happened again."

"I didn't think you could hear me."

He took my arm forcefully and blotted the scratches. "You still should have called for me."

The possessiveness of the comment and the intimacy of our nearness caused a palpable tension, at least to me. I looked up above his head and stifled a sigh as the water ran down beneath my ear.

"Did he push you?"

I shook my head. "No," I elaborated when I realized he couldn't see me, "I fell trying to get away from him."

"He won't be calling here again. He's not allowed in the house," he stated with confidence.

His movements were still jerky, a sign of controlled anger. He was mad at himself for what had happened, as ridiculous as that was.

"He's Jane's fiancé now," I protested, as he twisted off the top of the brandy bottle.

"Jane intends to refuse him."

"What?"

"She informed me last night; she does not intend to accept him."

"Perhaps she merely hoped you'd believe that she wasn't getting married."

"She knows her state of wed is neither here nor there to me," he responded blithely.

He cradled my elbow in his hand, "Do you have any other cuts?"

I felt a sting on my back but didn't think it important enough to ask him to dress it. My mother was quite capable of doing it for me. I shook my head, "It wasn't a bad fall. I just slipped."

"You didn't slip, he was accosting you."

"I could have handled him." At this time, I was of that young belief that by saying something you were, in effect, making it so.

He clucked his tongue at me disapprovingly, the bottle in one hand. "You're such a child."

"Is that so?" I bristled at him. "And why is that?"

"Because you haven't realized that words are meaningless and usually more transparent than they are reassuring."

"All of them?" Somehow I doubted that a man with such a love for literature and poetry could have such a low opinion of words.

"You don't know what you speak of. I don't want you near him. He is far more corrupt than even you know," he said under his breath. I recognized that tone - that almost parental voice my own mum used when she needed to say something to me, but had no desire to elaborate further on it.

"What do you mean?" I inquired.

He sighed, so long and hard that it almost bordered on a groan. Running the back of his hand over his forehead, he shook his head. "Why aren't you capable of simply trusting what I say?"

"I do trust what you say."

"The why do you need to know more?"

"Because I have a curious nature."

He smiled, half of his teeth bared in that peculiar lopsided grin of his. "Curious or nosy?"

I shrugged, recognizing that he was merely trying to distract me from my original queries. He dabbed once more at my cuts and inhaled, as if steeling himself for what he was about to say.

"Are you aware of anything concerning our last maid?"

"Yes. She murdered herself."

"Killed herself," he corrected absently. "After discovering she was with child. Did my mother tell you of this?"

"No," I answered, "Jane related it to me."

He cast his eyes heavenward in a dramatic gesture of frustration, "Then I suppose I'll have to relate everything to you, since I'm sure her description lacks some vital details."

"Such as?"

"Her name was Charlotte. She worked here for two years before she died. She was . . ." He seemed to ponder it for a bit, "fourteen, I believe. She worked here during the week, but she went home on Sundays to attend protestant religious services. She lived with her father down the road a bit where they owned a farm, and also a small pub where the local workers and farmhands would come to unwind after a day's labor. They made their home on the top floor of the pub, and it was their main source of monies. Charlotte came to work primarily because my mother wished to get her away from her father. He was a drunkard and more than incompetent when it came to raising a daughter on his own."

"Was this the man I spoke to out on his farm?" I interrupted.

"Yes. Barring is his name. Perhaps not necessarily a bad man, but not the best father. In any case, I could tell right away that she was not accustomed to speaking or doing anything

without being commanded to. The word 'timid' did her no justice. She was also painfully awkward around other people. I think in all the time she worked here for us, she never once looked me in the eye."

I decided it was best not to comment on why that might have been so and nodded.

"Even when I asked her to do something for me, she acted as skittish as a scared cat," he continued. "You can hardly imagine how hard it was to engage her in any conversation; I finally gave up trying to be cordial and settled on formality, which seemed to suit her better. I still don't quite understand why she was so nervous around me." He paused as if distracted once again by this conundrum.

I knew why without ever making the girl's acquaintance. She was probably enamored with him. Unfortunately for him, his was the sort of presence you felt more intimidated by than comfortable with, even while infatuated. Despite his cordiality, she was probably in butterflies the moment he was near her; such was his affect on people. I understood that, but declined to enlighten him. He wouldn't have believed my theory in any case.

"But, as I said, she went home on Sundays to go to church," he resumed, "And that is where Mr. Finch enters the equation. He and his buddies, other various aristocratic brats and spoiled children with nothing better to do, would gather at his pub on Sunday nights after it was closed for an sort of informal club that they had formed. I can't imagine what they discussed, seeing as they did nothing in life but spend their parent's money and pat each other on the back for it."

"Were you invited to this club?"

"Yes. But I would rather have nitrous acid poured in my eyes then suffer that company for more than I am absolutely required to. Though, perhaps if I had attended, I could have prevented what happened."

"Which concerns Charlotte?" I had a bad suspicion about the direction of this topic.

"Yes. You see, apparently her father had drunk himself into a stupor one Sunday night and so when the 'gentlemen' rang upstairs because they were in search of a new bottle of vodka, Charlotte was obliged to come down and supply it for them. Somehow, they convinced her to take a drink as well, though she claimed she didn't remember exactly how, and that was the last thing she remembered, until she woke up behind the bar. She remembered nothing about that night. Her clothes were undisturbed, but she . . . was not."

He gave me an odd look, as if trying to decide if I would understand what he meant, and if I would understand why a girl would be aware of something happening to her even if she couldn't recall it. I wasn't ignorant of such things and I nodded, happy for once about my mother's blunt and informative nature which equipped me now with the knowledge I needed so that he wouldn't be forced to explain things of such a nature to me.

"Did she tell anyone?" I asked.

"She told my mum, who believed her. But when it came to making the events public knowledge . . . these men were of a much higher standing than a farmer's daughter and it was only her word against the word of those men."

"So nothing was done?"

He looked away, looking slightly shamefaced. "I tried to tell, but these young men have parents that control this town, Mary, and it went nowhere. The best I could do was to warn Jane, who characteristically, didn't listen to a word I said." At my curious look, he elaborated, "We may not always get along, Jane and I, but I wouldn't wish that on anyone, even her."

I nodded and felt strange warmth towards him in that moment; to see such a compassionate side to him even towards someone of such a disagreeable disposition. "She seems to have listened to you now, since she refused him," I offered.

"She only refused him because she doesn't wish to marry anyone at the moment. Jane is too independent to submit to any man. One of the few qualities she possesses that I actually respect."

"What are the others?" I asked, trying not to sound miffed at his comment, which I was, for reasons unknown even to myself.

He didn't answer and the question was soon forgotten as he poured a bit of the alcohol onto my cuts. I hissed and squirmed; my eyes tightly closed and unstoppable whimpers catching in the back of my throat. When I opened my eyes, he was staring at me oddly, placing the bottle back onto the table without taking his gaze off of my face. His eyes were a light shade of green today.

"Are you alright?" he asked, his voice gentle and not filled with the normal concern that would accompany such a question. He sounded curious, as far as I could discern.

I nodded, the pain forgotten as he stared at me. Suddenly he reached out to my chest. I sucked in a deep breath before I realized he was going for my hair, which I hadn't yet pinned up. He fingered a strand over my shoulder, looking at the ends of it. I stayed still, not wanted to move too much and cause any accidental touches. He let the lock run through his fingertips, caressing my hair with a fondness that was much more open than usual.

"This shade is very becoming."

His other hand rested across my knees. It was not as tight a contact as we had shared the night before when he had placed my hand in his lap to investigate, but there had been a purpose for that, a meaningless one albeit, but a purpose nonetheless. This gesture, though, was not even thought of. The naturalness of it made it more startling and intimate.

"You know," he started, as his large hand worked its way up farther into my wavy locks, a look of almost professional examination settling onto his features. "About twenty years ago in Washington Square, there was a set of twin boys. When they reached three-and-twenty they each married." His fingers snuggled into the depths of my hair until they touched my scalp, holding the back of my head and causing me to look away from him. "The older boy married a lovely woman, as did they younger, but the older brother's wife was a redhead, of the most unusual strawberry blonde, whereas the younger brother's wife was a dark brunette." His touch was warm and unlike anything that I had ever felt before, which surprised me since I had never thought such a touch could be so stimulating.

"So," he continued, "about three years into both marriages, the younger brother murders his older brother and proceeds to take his place. And do you know why?"

The feel of his calloused fingertips working slow circles about the base of my head was distracting. I shook my head, though I knew the answer.

"Because he coveted his brother's wife; simply because of her hair color."

"Why did he not simply ask his wife to tint her own hair?" I asked, trying not to sound breathless.

"Well, it gets more interesting. He had asked his wife to, but she didn't want to, so he murdered her as well. This worked out splendidly in his grand scheme to assume his brother's role. To the entire world, he and his wife were dead in a murder-suicide and he smoothly stepped in to take his brother's place."

"That's horrifying."

"Not as horrifying as the thought that he succeeded."

I tipped my head back slightly as he applied pressure to curve of my head. "He got away with it?"

"For a few months, until the wife realized it was not her husband."

"Did he ask for some food that her husband disliked?" I joked.

His fingers stopped for a moment, as I could see him fighting back a look of uncertainty and discomfort. "No . . . it was a little more private than that."

I blushed. And then I had a sudden idea of what this was - or what it looked like. His hand in my hair, alone, so close we'd send a surge of shock through any polite company. And I knew that despite what I knew, what I felt, what I thought of him and us, on the outside, I was merely one of them - a maid who stole in and tricked a respectable man into putting his hand on my knee, his hand tangled in my hair. How was I any different than any of the others who'd come before me? The ones who threw themselves off waterfalls once everything went to far and too serious?

I moved my hand up, ready to push his arm gently away and ask him what he was doing. Really, what did he think he was doing?

His expression changed at my movement, like a candle suddenly being blown out. I could see his mouth open to say something to me but he straightened suddenly and stood, the stool rattling against the floor as it wobbled and settled back down.

"Hello, Mrs. Kelly," he bowed to my mother as she stood in the doorway, staring at us both with a curious and suspicious eye.

"Good day, sir," she curtseyed stiffly.

I stared ahead, refusing to appear guilty, knowing she was looking for it.

"You're up early," he offered, attempting to make small talk.

"What happened?" she asked as she moved more into the room, catching sight of the water and linens.

"She fell," he supplied for me. "I was cleaning her wounds."

"Were you?" The suspicion in her voice made him rock on his heels nervously, the first time I had ever seen him in such a state.

"Yes . . . she fell into the thorn bushes."

She looked at me, checking me over quickly. "Did she bump her head?"

"I beg your pardon?" he asked.

She glanced up at him from her examination, "That's what you were checking for, was it not?"

"Mum," I broke in as he flushed up, "I'm quite alright. I need to get this dirt out of my hair."

"Alright, I'll start breakfast. And you, sir," she addressed him, "I'm sure have plenty of time to dress before the food is prepared."

He nodded and glanced down absently, as if just realizing how he was attired. "Of course, I apologize," he offered, and I sensed it was not only for his state of undress.

He padded barefoot up the stairs. I turned to leave, not waiting to discuss the matter with my mother any further. She said my name, low and with a warning. Any other time, her tone would have stopped me, but I kept walking.

And she let me go.


	17. Love Looks Not With the Mind

Chapter 13: Love Looks Not With They Eyes But With the Mind

"What are you reading?"

He glanced up at me from where he sat across from me.

"A book," he answered vaguely.

I sighed loudly and shifted my head away from the window. It was snowing outside and I could hardly see through the double-doors that led to the patio. Not that I would have seen much anyway - it was pitch-black outside.

I was curled up in the large chair across from him, my head lying hard against the armrest. I was exhausted and fatigued. The weather had a way of exacerbating my sporadic colds. Of course, walking around the grounds to take in the frost bitten tree branches and play with the snow very likely contributed as well.

His parents had dined out, though I found it hard to imagine them sharing a lovely evening together. Jane had cornered me in the hall and denounced every meal I'd ever cooked in this house, making questionable remarks about whether I was trying to poison them all. I took her barrage until she tired herself out and then I retreated to the sitting-room to rest.

The usually keenly observant young man had not noticed my presence in the crippling dark of the room until he had lit a candle by the couch and turned up the gas. I surprised him, but he rallied admirably and sat smoothly across from me, merely acknowledging me with a curt nod of his head. One of his shirtsleeves had been rolled up and at the sight of me he quickly shoved it down to his wrist. It was amusing, since I had never noticed that he was protective of his modesty before.

He had brought in a cup of drinking chocolate and he sipped at it as I stared at him until I was sure I'd made him uncomfortable.

He wouldn't answer my question about his reading material, which angered me, perhaps more so because my nerves were already stretched. I sighed loudly again and then looked at him, waiting for a response.

He arched an eyebrow at me but continued reading.

"Why won't you tell me what you're reading?"

"Because it's none of your concern." The covering was plain but worn. I lifted my head, fully intent to get up and read over his shoulder, but it was too much effort. I let my head fall back down with a harsh grunt that was decidedly unbecoming.

It caught his attention enough to warrant a look of concern. "You're not feeling well, Mary?" All his questions always sounded like statements.

I nodded.

"A warm bath might make you feel better . . . the water will relax your muscles."

A snide remark formed at the tip of my tongue about his obvious statement but it never ventured forth when I saw that he was blushing, even while staring impassively down at his book. I looked back out the sleet-splattered panes, suddenly more aware of the cool air seeping in from underneath the door.

"It sounds lovely, but I'd have to move."

We fell silent again, and that shy flush vanished as quickly as it appeared. I stretched my back gently, tucked my shawl tighter around me and resumed watching at him. He was already looking at me, though.

"Why are you staring at me?" I snapped, more irritated that I couldn't look at him without his notice now.

He smirked lopsidedly, "Did Jane upset you?"

I rolled my eyes and then bit my lip, "She hates me."

He exhaled deliberately, "That she does."

"Why?"

He shrugged and then mumbled, "Beware the green-eyed monster." I didn't have to ask what he meant; he had recently read me Othello, or the parts acceptable for feminine ears. I wondered if he were reading something now that was not for ladies to view. The thought annoyed me. I hated things being kept from me.

"However," he stated louder, "I think your cooking is just fine." He was only being kind because I humored his sweet tooth and let him dip his finger into the frosting I had mixed together in the afternoon.

"What's 'insufferable' mean?" I asked. Jane had called me that when I refused to answer her tirade. It made no sense to me.

"It means someone you cannot suffer the company of; someone you can't stand to be around."

"Oh." That made more sense. "I thought it meant someone who couldn't suffer," I admitted a little bashfully.

"I suppose it sounds a bit like that. Why do you ask? Are you trying to think of names to call me when I behave like a prat?"

"No need, I have a catalog of sorts going on already - tucked under my bed," I teased.

He chuckled gently, "You'll have to share it with me sometime."

I smiled, though only the side of my face pressed into the chair didn't move.

"What are you reading?" I repeated, hoping he was in a more talkative mood now.

He threw his head back in exasperation. "You're like a badgering child. Why do you wish to know so badly?"

"Why do you not wish me to know?"

"Because it's . . ."

"Don't say it is not for women."

"It is not something you should read."

"Then it is not something you should read," I argued. He frowned at me as I rose to sit next to him, pulling at the side of the book as he closed it from my eyes.

"It is not something I should read to you."

"Because it's not fitting for me? That is something men say merely to prevent women from enjoying anything pleasurable in life," I snapped boldly.

"You know I wouldn't keep you from anything that pleased you." He paused, then coughed awkwardly.

"Is it poetry?" I asked.

"Yes."

"Is it sad?"

"No . . ." he trailed off before clearing his throat, "it's romantic."

I grinned at him, "Read it to me."

He hesitated, "I probably should not." He slid the book onto my knees. "You may read it yourself."

"I want you to read it to me." He didn't ask me why that was so important, and I was grateful for it. "I want to hear something romantic. Read out loud, pretend I am not here."

He settled his book on his lap and stared up at the ceiling again. "You mustn't tell anyone."

I wondered if he meant not to say that he read it himself or that he had read it to me. Either way, I nodded.

He began reading to me, though he did not stop as per was usual for him to explain anything that he thought I may not understand. I colored at the sporadic images I did catch. He ignored me as his finger traced the words. I looked away from him.

"License my roving hands, and let them go  
Before, behind, between, above, below.  
O my America . . ." His voice was steady, though his neck kept his gaze stiffly on the page in front of him, never once looking in my direction, though I fiddled nervously with my fingers in my lap.

After a few more verses, I stood, breaking off his recital. He let out a relieved breath as a settled myself back into my own chair, feeling foolish and shaky. He flipped to a different page and began a familiar sonnet.

"Are we to have our violin lesson tomorrow?" I interrupted; my mind not on what he was saying. I did not wish to hear him speak poetry anymore.

It made me feel awfully confused.

He closed the book and stretched out onto the couch, dropping the object onto the floor next to him with a soft thud. "Don't we always?"

"I'm not getting any better."

He laughed as his eyes fluttered closed. I suddenly wanted to be on the couch again.

"It takes time, Mary. You'll get better in time."

"How?" I wanted to keep talking to him, but I could tell he was about to nod off. I reached absently down for the book but he caught my hand, so quick it stunned me.

"I'll teach you," he murmured, already slipping from consciousness. "I'll teach you anything you want to know." He held my hand in his own."Tomorrow we will read something new. 'Wuthering Heights', perhaps." He traced lazy patterns on the back of my hand.

"You lived in Whitechapel before you came here?" he asked suddenly, his eyes still closed, looking relaxed.

"Yes," I murmured.

He pulled on my arm gently, tumbling me out of the chair and onto the ground next to the divan. Sliding my hand around his waist, he eased my head down onto his stomach. My heart fluttered, my hair splaying out across his hips. I stared up at his face, tucking my hand snugly between him and the back of the couch. I exhaled and he shifted as though he could feel it.

"Tell me about it," he demanded coaxingly, his hands stroking my hair as if I were a child.

His ministrations soothed me at the same time that his words caused my belly to twist up sickeningly. I didn't want to tell him about the world I had seen outside these four walls in beautifully dreary Yorkshire. I didn't want to remind him what I was.

"It was alright."

"Alright?" He whispered, massaging the base of my scalp.

"With my mum . . . it was."

"What was it like?"

I took a deep breath and blew it out against the back of his hand. His heart sped up slightly. "It was okay . . . my mum took care of me. We were safe at work, and then we'd go straight home."

"You had to go out sometime."

"We always went together, and always in daytime . . . though that didn't guarantee anything."

"No one bothered you?"

"Whitechapel is . . . we were always bothered. But we grew used to it."

"Bothered?"

"Have you ever been to Whitechapel?"

He rubbed my earlobe between the callous pads of his fingers and scratched it gently with his fingernail. I could feel him shake his head.

"It's filthy," I continued, "I saw things that I suppose a lady shouldn't . . . as soon as I reached thirteen years of age men assumed . . ." I trailed off as his hands stilled on my shoulders. The soothing up and down motion of his stomach calmed me into letting my eyes drift closed.

"But no one ever . . . did anything to you?"

His fingers blotted at the moisture that had collected around my neck. I hadn't realized I'd been sweating. I struggled to right myself, feeling embarrassed but he tugged me back down, unperturbed. He continued his actions, absently licking at his own finger before settling them back down onto my hair. His actions flustered me and I stared at him, though his eyes were still blissfully shut.

"Did anyone ever do anything to you?" His voice was more insistent now, a tad annoyed at my silence and oblivious to my discomfort.

"No, but they tried." His fingers dug into my shoulder blades as he tried to restrain some emotion. "My friend . . ." once the words started, they rushed out in an uncontrollable blur, "I had a friend once. She was a little street-brat that I met when she tried to steal my bread from me. I knocked her down and boxed her ears before I realized she was a girl. She was a dear."

"What happened to her?"

I pressed my face deeply into his stomach. He stiffened and caught his breath deep in his throat. His hands slid into my hair as my sinuses abruptly cleared and my nose began to run. I sniffled and brought my hand under my face, my palm flat on his belly.

"Some men got her and…her mother found her in the alley next to their rooms. She'd gotten too old to pretend to be a boy," I continued.

"What happened to the men who hurt her?"

"Nothing." His muscles tensed beneath me.

"What was her name?"

"Violet Shaw."

"Do you miss her?"

"When I think of her."

"Poor, beautiful Mary . . . Voici la vérité de l'enfant à qui j'appartiens. . ." He stilled, even his breathing slowed. We stayed that way for some bit. I felt his hand slide around to rest on my ribcage and then he shifted, pressing his lips to my temple. He settled back down, his hands on my back and shoulders. After a minute, his breathing became rhythmic. I looked up and saw that he had drifted into sleep, his face furrowed in consternation.

A smile played on my lips as I watched him sleep. Without his conscious presence, it was too still in the room and I fought the childish urge to rouse him and ask him to play his violin for me now.

Or read some more.

Or . . . anything.

I refrained, detangling myself from his embrace and hefting the book with deathly silence as he slept on unawares. Snuggling down next to the couch, for I could not bring myself to leave his side, I rifled through the pages. It was just a poetry book, nothing to be scandalized over, though it had some of the more questionable poets included. I read some of the essays, learning more about the mechanics of poetry. They were interesting, though not as good as the work itself. I made a mental note to ask him to explain meter to me tomorrow. I then thumbed to the middle, trying to remember how deep into the book he was when he began reciting to me.

I found the poem at last, and casting one cautious glance at him, read it to myself.


	18. I Am Fortune's Fool

Chapter 14: I Am Fortune's Fool

It was the next morning when it happened. Rain was coming down in sheets and you could smell the distinct scent of it from outside even in the warmth of the house. I did not find it unpleasant, generally, but today I felt itchy and confined.

It was after breakfast had been cleared and I stood washing plates as my mother dried them, a task she could do rather easily despite the weakness that seemed to be afflicting her more and more. Jane had departed to her room, although I suspected that she had managed to make an escape somehow and was now off doing God-knows what with Quentin (or some other boy).

The three remaining members of the family were still seated around the breakfast table. Stepfather and stepson were sitting across from each other and a one-sided conversation was taking place that I was trying my best to ignore.

The treasured violin lay across the table were it had been deposited after the owner had spent the entire breakfast hour polishing and twiddling with it. Looking back, I wish I had followed my instinct to remove it while clearing the dishes, but some things simply cannot be undone.

"Have you given any thought to what we were speaking of?" Mr. Wilson asked, not looking up from his paper, as per was usual for him. I had heard them speaking the night before about applying for admittance to the University of Edinburgh.

In keeping with his response last night, the boy didn't answer.

Mrs. Wilson moved her cup to her mouth but paused before taking a sip, "Pourquoi tu réponses non simplement?"

Mr. Wilson folded down his paper, giving his wife a deathly stare, "Haven't I asked you not to speak when I can't understand you?"

She took a sip and placed the teacup back onto its saucer, "I said nothing of importance."

The slap was loud and shocking, as was the blood that flew out of her nose as her head flew back. She tripped on hers skirt and grimaced as her foot slid sideways in her attempt to stop her fall. Even in shock, instinctively I moved forward. I'd rescued too many children in Whitechapel from groping adults that I was use to springing into action. But my mother grabbed my arm, holding me back.

Her son had sprung up in an instant but his mother put a halting hand on his arm before he could act. He swatted her away angrily, "Pourquoine me laisses-tu pas t'aider?"

"Tu rendres seulement des choses plus mauvaises!" she yelled back. The boy flinched and gazed at her for a while. The father still did not stand, nor did he appear to be nervous of his stepson's anger, though I suspected he should have been. He brought a fist down onto the table and swung his arm out, swiping at the dishes and aiming particularly for the boy's treasured violin.

"I said to speak English!" he demanded and I watched as the table's contents went clattering to the floor.

The young man stared at the fiddle, which now lay near my feet in pieces before turning to look at his stepfather were he still sat across the table.

His mother grabbed his arm, attempting to pull him away though she wasn't strong enough to budge him. He disentangled himself, and with measured step and a tight jaw stepped away from his stepfather's face. Standing a good deal away from him, he studied the older man for a moment with a shrewd eye. He then took off out the back door into the pouring rain, sans coat and hat, and disappeared somewhere in the fog and gloom. Mrs. Wilson collapsed onto her chair and began to sob.

I willed my heart to slow and removed my mother's tight grip from my arm. I bent down to receive the instrument. My hand was halfway there when Mr. Wilson's enraged voice screamed at me.

"Leave it be!"

I froze and then raised myself up. I avoided his gaze, not used to being roared at in such an intimidating and ungentlemanly fashion.

"Percy! Do not yell at her!" The lady of the house was quite adept at regaining her composure, even as blood streamed down her face and into her bodice.

"I will yell anytime I please! First he shoots his impertinent mouth off at me and now the hired help defies me! I will not have it!"

"She was not defying you." Mrs. Wilson's voice had calmed slightly and she gathered herself enough to gesture me out of the room. I took my mother's hand and took flight, but managed to collect the broken instrument before escaping while his back was turned.

The violin was beyond repair.

He did not return home that day or in the early evening. Around four in the morning I crept into the kitchen with the pretense of a parched throat. I was looking for some clue to his presence.

When I crept past the main room, I saw her silhouette on the wall. She sat in the dark, in her nightgown and shawl; her hair was down, cascading over her shoulders. She was looking out of the window into the rain and darkness.

I turned to depart, thinking that she had not noticed me. Her soft voice caught me, "I do not think he is coming back." I faced her but she did not turn away from the window, a shadow fell diagonally onto her sharp profile. In the gloom of the corner, she resembled her son.

I did not reply and she continued, speaking so delicately that I wondered if she were really talking to me. "He has no reason to, nothing here for him." She finally rotated her head to regard me. She looked unbearably sad.

My voice was barely above a whisper, "He will come back, ma'am. He will come back for you."

"Will he?" She sounded truly curious. She gazed out the window again, "even if he does come back, will it be for me?"

I crept back to my room and left her there. I stayed alert while I lay in bed, listening for any sound.

Around half past five in the morning, I heard the Mistress' tread up the stairs and her bedroom door close. Barely an hour later, I heard the kitchen door squeak open.

Without a thought, I bounded out of bed and towards the hall. I slowed when I reached the open door, seeing his hunched form sitting at the table, lighted only by an old and nearly useless candle. He had a large decanter of a dark liquor next to him. It took me a moment to understand that he was pouring it on his hands and then dabbing it on his face.

I moved forward, seeing the blood soaking his collar and the sweat dampening his hair until it hung it limp, wet curls around his neck. His head snapped up when he heard the shuffle of my bare feet on the floor.

"Get out of here, Mary," he ordered without looking at me.

I moved back, just barely out of the room, trying to obey him without letting him out of my sight. He either didn't notice my presence or was now ignoring me, and stripped off his outer shirt. His undershirt was speckled with blood as well, but he didn't remove it.

After a moment of smearing some brandy on the cuts on his neck and lip, he snorted dryly.

"You aren't half as clever as you think you are, Mary."

I smiled weakly from my hiding place in the shadow of the hall. "I'm not sure how to take that, sir, since I don't really consider myself very clever at all."

He was quiet for a great while, staring at the tabletop, and then he took a large swig from the bottle and gestured me further into the room.

He looked much worse close up - his hair was wet and matted not only with sweat, but with blood and gravel. The same was true for the back of his shirt, his face, his pants.

He lifted the back of his shirt. "Am I bleeding?" he asked.

I peered at the flesh around his sides and spine. There were no cuts, but the skin was red and angry.

"No," I responded, "but you look burned. Were you boxing?"

He nodded.

"I've never known you to allow yourself be dragged around the ring, sir," I commented. And it was true, I knew he boxed quite a bit, but he had never come home this badly torn up before.

"Mary," he warned. Silently, he lowered his shirt back down. Then he pulled at the bloody collar, down the nape of his neck. I leaned forward, assuming he was asking me to look for more injuries. Here, he had a few teeth marks sunk into his flesh. I gasped.

"It's very bad then?" he asked.

"You've been bitten!"

"McMurdo is a rough one. I don't think he likes me very much since the last time we fought."

He handed me the bottle over his shoulder.

Instead of dabbing it on with my fingers, I tipped the bottle down, pouring a bit down his neck and back, hoping to wash away some of the dirt and gravel from the boxing ring floor that was sticking to him.

At the first touch of brandy on his wounds, he jerked forward, upsetting the table and cursing so loudly that I yelped and backed away from him.

He gritted his teeth and slapped a hand over his mouth to control himself.

"I'm sorry!" I apologized, "I didn't know it would hurt so much!"

He shook his head, dismissing my apology but his face was still contorted with pain. When he leaned over, his shoulders shaking, I thought for a horrible moment that he was actually crying.

He was laughing.

It was a bit wild and a few tears may have been mixed in, but it was definitely laughter he was indulging in.

"You didn't think it would hurt," he repeated, amusement and pain making his voice tremble.

I moved forward, putting the bottle back onto the table next to him. "I am so sorry, sir. I was hoping to wash up some of the dirt, is all. Sorry, sorry, sorry-"

"Stop," he murmured, "it's fine. But really, Mary, I can take a bath to get rid of the grime. Just pat a bit on so that I can make sure I don't get infected, please. Lord only knows what McMurdo has going on in the rotten mouth of his."

I hesitated, but took the bottle up again and dabbed some on the handkerchief he handed to me from his discarded jacket pocket. I wetted a corner and pressed it against the ugly, crescent marks. He didn't even squirm this time.

After I was done, I squeezed a curl of his hair between my fingertips and came away with the pads of my fingers wet and pink.

"Do you have a head injury?" I asked.

He shook his head.

"Let me see your face, " I commanded.

He stood, but ducked his face and grabbed his clothes from the table. "I'm fine, Mary, I just need a warm bath. And I don't need your help with that."

I blushed, but I'm was sure (hopeful) that he could not see it in the dark. In the weak firelight, he was bruised and bloody and soaked in sweat and dirt, but he was fairly glowing. I stepped aside for him and let him pass me.

When he was gone, I sat at the table and drank the rest of the brandy.


	19. Our Remedies Oft In Ourselves Do Lie

**Chapter 15: Our Remedies Oft In Ourselves Do Lie**

He was very quiet in the subsequent weeks. It was upsetting to see him so consistently unhappy. A week or two of depression, I was used to, but this was another thing entirely.

It was a matter I brought up to James a fortnight later. He was finally finishing up the fence and I had ventured out to chat to him after hours. I helped him hold up the last few boards as he hammered.

"That violin meant everything to him. I don't care much for that sort of thing, and I do not even know the bloke very well but I was aware of its worth." His words were compassionate but his manner was nonchalant, dismissive.

"I have never seen him so down. He is not even in a bad-temper. He is just merely silent and sparse now in his appearances in any other area in the house save his room," I replied.

"Give him time and he'll soon be right again."

"I am not so sure," I murmured, securing a board against a post using my side.

He stuck a nail in his mouth while marking a spot on the wood. I tried to move the lantern into a better spot with my foot but only succeeded in pushing it off-balance. James relocated it to a desired position without acknowledging my effort.

"Have you talked to him?" he asked.

"Why would I?"

"He is your friend, is he not?"

I tried to read his words to see if they were deeper than they seemed. His face was neutral, giving no indication that he were trying to imply anything out of the ordinary.

"Yes, I suppose. He is not the easiest person to talk to sometimes, though."

"Yes, I can imagine. Could you hold it up a bit higher?"

I moved the wood up for him absently, my mind still on other matters.

"He'll buy a new violin. I am sure he can find another of good quality."

James grunted, hammering into the board. It vibrated against my side and it took all my strength not to drop it.

"I think it had some sentimental value though," he continued.

"Does it?"

He did not answer; giving the nail one last whack, he gestured for me to step back. I moved away carefully, afraid that the whole thing would come crashing down. When it did not, James gave an exuberant exclamation and wiped his brow. "Bloody thing is finally done."

"You should be proud."

He settled down onto the grass, the light from the lantern casting his shadow eerily on the brand-new fence.

"Well, I cannot take all the credit can I?" He gestured at me appreciatively.

I curtsied and then gathered my skirt to sit next to him. He pulled out a flask and took a swig. I shook my head politely when he offered it to me.

"Sorry, that was not very gentlemanly of me."

"Do not be sorry."

He leaned his elbows on his knees and peered into the darkness. "I think it was his father's."

"Pardon?"

He looked at me, as if he had not really been talking to me before. "The violin. I think it was a gift; though I am not sure. He's had it since his father died."

'You knew his father?"

"What? No. Mrs. Wilson's late husband died eleven years ago."

I grimaced at the stupidity of my question but James didn't seem to take any more notice of it. He had another go at his flask.

"Do you know how he died?" I inquired.

"Just rumors, mostly. Took his own life is what most people say."

"Why?" It was a hard thing for me to fathom. I had lived among the most desolate of people and they still clung to life. What in the world drove some people to think things would never get better?

"I do not know. It is not spoken of very openly, of course. I have heard that Mrs. Wilson was devastated, naturally. She loved him very much. Has she ever spoken of him to you before?"

"Only casually. I did not press her for information. That would not be respectful."

"I wonder if they were happy."

"They were wed. They must have been happy."

"That is not a given, James. Marriage does not necessarily bring happiness."

"It should, if you love each other." He looked at me intensely. "That actually brings me to something that I have been wanting to speak to you about."

Panic rose in me though I knew it was unfair to him. "What time is it?"

"What?" He looked confused by my question. A small part of me hoped that he noticed my avoidance; maybe it would discourage him.

"The_ time_ . . . I think I have been out here too long."

"I am not sure. We are probably already into the morning. Why?"

I gathered my skirt and rose clumsily, "Oh, dear. They lock the doors at eleven. I do not want to wake the master."

I started to rush away, leaving him there with his words unfinished, as I hoped they would remain.

Crossing to the back I tested the handle of the porch door and cursed under my breath. I did not have to check the sitting room doors or front way to know that they were also soundly secured for the night.

I knew that there was really only one thing I could do if I did not want the lady or master of the house aware of my late hours.

I wandered around to the side of the house and counted the windows. Finding the desired one, I searched around the dank fringe of grass surrounding the pathway and found a small round pebble.

I contemplated for just a moment before reaching my arm back to hurl it in direction of the second-story window. Surprisingly, it reached the desired target and made a small tinge on the glass. I waited for a moment before grasping around for another object to toss. As I was bending down I heard a click from above and looked up to see the window panes opening outward. A few seconds later, a tousled head poked out, squinting down at me.

"Mary? What in the world are you doing out there?" His voice was clipped, irritated.

"I have been locked out, sir."

He stared at me for a moment, the darkness somehow making his eyes even more startlingly noticeable. They were looking at me coldly.

"It is two in the morning, Mary."

I felt it best not to respond. He looked at me for a moment. "What would happen if I said no?" he asked.

That option had not occurred to me and I clenched my teeth in irritation. "Do not even think of that, sir. I need to be let in immediately. It is very cold and a true gentleman would oblige as quickly as possible."

A smile appeared and then vanished, "I have never laid any claim to being a gentleman. First tell me what you are doing up so late?"

My fists balled up at his stubbornness, "Does it matter so? You are up too."

He smirked, "True, I am up but I am up in my own bedchamber, not wandering around in the backyard."

"Just let me in. Please." I tried to look cold and his chivalry took over. Sighing loudly, he brought his head back in and closed the window softly.

I jogged back to the rear entryway and waited for him. I knew he was taking his time because he was angry with me but I never doubted he was coming.

After an unendurably long time, the door creaked open and I slipped inside to the relative warmth of the kitchen.

He stood glaring at me, looking only slightly sleepy. Fully-dressed and still booted, I wondered what he had been doing up this late.

"Thank you." I curtsied.

He continued to glare, "Do not thank me." He strode to the counter, his back still stiff. "Would you like some tea?" he asked.

I opened my mouth to decline, feeling the need to retire, but changed my mind at the thought of sitting with him for a bit. I pulled out a chair as he set the tea-kettle onto the fire.

"I did not wake you?" I prodded softly.

Striking a match on the counter, he lit a cigarette before settling down next to me and resting his arms on the table. "No. I was up reading."

I observed his profile.

"What was your father like?" I blurted.

He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. "James has been gossiping again?"

I started to protest but he cut me off, "Quite alright. Most people do anyway - gossip, that is."

"About your father?"

He shrugged, "He was a complicated man. Or so I hear; melancholy, extremely sagacious. He was artistic, always composing or sitting on his divan, dancing with the daffodils inside his mind."

"Sounds very much like you."

He gave me an inscrutable look. "I certainly hope not. He hung himself with his own belt."

We were still for a heavy moment before I found my voice, sounding weak and gravely to my own ears, "Why?"

"He was sad," he remarked flatly, looking as though it were the most evident thing in the world. I suppose it was.

"You don't know what made him feel that way?" I asked and noticed the tightening of his jaw. I seemed to be saying all the wrong things to him.

"No. And we weren't so much alike. He was an artist, a poet, a composer, great in all the things I've always lacked."

"I disagree. You lack in nothing, sir. I think you merely are too harsh with yourself."

"Yes, well, the only activity I was adequate in is now lost to me."

"Mr. Wilson should not have broken your violin. It was a petty thing to do."

"Petty things are his métier." He sounded cavalier but I noticed he inhaled deeper on his smoke. "If I can cross him any way; I bless myself every way."

"Pardon?"

He stubbed out his cigarette and stood to receive the tea-kettle. "I was merely quoting Shakespeare."

"Some you have not read to me?" I knew I sounded possessive but the words came out of their own volition.

He frowned at me as he poured the hot water into my cup and over the tea leaves. "No, I hadn't. Not yet anyway." He streamed some of the amber liquid into his own cup, not reacting to my tone. A smile tugged at his mouth, "I'm going to confess to you, I played a small part in a production of Hamlet in London once."

He wandered to pillage the leftover tortes from the night before. I'd wrapped them in parchment paper so that he could snack when he wanted to. I put my cup down before drinking, shocked by this new development. "You've acted Shakespeare before?"

He brought a finger up to his lips, letting me know it was a secret. "I tried my hand at it a few times when I was bored with everyday life. You should not look so surprised. I thought you knew by now that I had a hidden artistic side."

His eyes grew pensive for a moment as he regarded me. "What happened to your father?"

I fiddled with my cup, "He died at work. I don't know what he did; I was too young to really understand what was happening."

"What did your mother do?" he asked softly, his voice suddenly soothing, the lilt pronounced…distractingly so.

I sipped daintily, though my hands vibrated with sudden nervousness. He was staring at me too intently. "My father left her a little money and we traveled around, doing odd jobs. I'm actually quite ill at ease staying in one place," I supplied with a self-conscious laugh. He did not smile, not willing to humor me. He continued to watch, his eyes reflecting a deep commiseration that seemed strangely at home there.

"So what happened?"

I shrugged, "Money ran out."

"Yes . . . Yes, that happens." A look of contempt spread across his features for a moment, though he tried to hide it.

"Am I right to assume that the same occurred to your mother? And then Mr. Wilson came along?" I prodded.

"Correct."

"She could do much better," I volunteered quietly, and then bit my lip when he went rigid. He sat stiffly for so long that I debated whether to excuse myself.

"Are you cold?" he finally asked, ignoring our last conversation. He popped a shabbily squared bit of chocolate into his mouth.

"A tad."

He didn't have a coat to offer me so he merely smiled sympathetically and swallowed. "You shouldn't be out so late. Or at least bring a coat with you when you go off to build fences with handsome men."

"How did . . ."

He smirked at me, "You have dust here." He reached a hand to my face, his fingers, rough and calloused with activity, brushing against the line of my jaw and he swiped at something only he could see. I let my eyes flutter closed, letting out a contented sigh that he noticed. His fingers stilled but stayed pressed faintly against my skin. His hand strayed away eventually, though I could sense it as it lingered over my shoulder and chest, finally descending back to its rightful place next to his teacup.

"Do you remember your father?"

My eyes opened and I hoped I did not look as affected as I felt. "A little..." I cleared my throat, suddenly dry, "He used to carry me around on his shoulders, spinning me around until we were dizzy. Then he'd drop me down on the couch."

He drew on his cigarette, pushing his cup around with his free hand, the one that had only moments ago flittered across my cheek delicately. "That sounds exciting."

"It was. Once he missed and I received a pretty good knock to the head but I forgave him. We never told mum." I smiled absently at the memory.

"Why did your mother not marry again?"

"She was able but she wouldn't. We'd roam from town to town and she sometimes worked night and day but she wouldn't think of marrying someone else. I don't think she could love anyone else."

"Are you angry at her for that?"

I contemplated, though I didn't really need to. "No, I envy her. She was able to marry the man she loved. I do not think I'll be afforded that luxury."

He smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. "Depends on who you love."

"Love shouldn't work that way." My voice was taut.

He stubbed out his cigarette, "But it does." He looked me in the eyed, his own grey and tempestuous. "You're a bonny girl . . . any man would be lucky to have you, Mary. You are a lily among the thorny weeds; a mare in the chariots of Pharaoh."

I felt strangely comfortable with his compliments, though they made my flush. I knew he noticed, he noticed everything. "You don't have to do that."

He frowned, genuinely confused at my modesty. "Do what?"

"Try to make me feel better. " He opened his mouth to respond but I wouldn't let him. "I wake up some days and my life isn't so bad, considering. But other days…" I looked up at him, wanting him now to interrupt me; to stop me from confiding in him. His eyes prompted me, though, and I rambled on as he listened patiently. "There was this older woman back in London; she'd draw pictures for people. You'd see her walking around with a bag of charcoal sticks and old tattered paper. She only received a shilling for each drawing, even though she drew more beautifully than anyone else I'd ever seen.

"I never thought anything of it when I'd see her with her things out sketching someone, sitting on the curb. It was her life, you know? But once, she offered to draw me…and she told me about her life, as older people enjoy doing and I think she just liked having someone who would listen to her. She used to be an actress and then she fell in love with a doctor. His family detested her and they disowned him. He lost his mind a few years into their marriage and she had to take care of him. They were both shunned from society - she'd fallen so far because of thing she had no control over. She had nothing but a few drawings and a broken man at home.

"I think it was the first I realized what I'd been feeling all those years because I could see it in her eyes. She was trapped and lost and so was I. It was the first time I ever realized that it was much easier to fall than to rise up. I was thirteen years old and my life was already over, all I had to look forward to was poverty or death . . . just like Violet."

He anticipated tears; I could tell by the way his eyes searched my face. But I shed none. His hand hovered over mine. "I'm sure that's not true."

"I'm sorry, I don't mean to sound ungrateful. You're family has been wonderful." I left the table before he could respond.

aa


	20. I Will Buy With You, Sell With You

Chapter 16: I Will Buy with You, Sell With You

* * *

The next morning I opened my bedroom door to him after, what seemed like, hours of his indefatigable knocking. He was fully dressed, morning-coat and all, but I was still in my slip. I hovered behind the door and peered out at him.

"Is there something the matter?" It was Sunday, and I hated being summoned on my day off.

He did not seem to notice that I was hiding from view but I saw his eyes flicker to the bed and the still-sleeping form of my mother bundled up on it.

He spoke low and quietly, "My mother is not feeling like herself so I am going to town today to run some errands instead of chapel."

I stared at him, half-wondering why he felt the need to inform me and half-wondering if my hair was in order.

After a long silence I finally gave in and spoke, "That is very nice to know."

He pursed his lips, either irked or trying to quell a smile. "You are to come with me."

Was that a command?

I shifted, vaguely aware that for a moment he could see my bare arm and shoulder, but too annoyed with him to care. "It is Sunday. You have no place to order me around today. I am not obligated to help you with your errands."

He cocked his head to me. I heard the bed creak and could only assume my mother was rolling over. He watched her over my head.

Finally he responded, "I was not ordering you. I was asking."

I mimicked him and cocked my head as well, "Really? It sounded distinctly like an instruction to me. You should learn how to be polite while asking for favors. If that is what you are asking for."

An exasperated look passed over his dark features for a bare second and then he sighed, "I was simply asking you to join me."

"Why?"

He looked away; then leaned on the door. "Because I would enjoy the pleasure of your company."

He smirked at me and I knew it was a half-truth. He thought he was getting away with something. He actually thought he was fooling me.

"Why else?" He shook his head in frustration, never a patient man.

"Forget it, Mary." When he was irritated, his polished voice clipped the end of his words. It was probably how his father spoke. He started to walk away from me.

"Wait." I did not speak until he turned back around. "Let me get dressed and tell my mother."

I closed the door without waiting for a response. I roused my mother and she gazed unseeingly at me, sleepiness making her eyesight even more impaired.

"What is it, Mary?"

I started to change into my best dress and boots while talking to her, "I am going to go into town today." I wrapped a scarf around my neck and realized that a year had already passed in this house. It was April and drizzly out and I tugged on my gloves.

"I know. I heard."

I grinned even though she could not see it. "It is not lady-like to eavesdrop, mum."

"You should learn to talk quieter."

"I will be back in a while. I will read to you."

Her face brightened and I felt a strong surge of affection, I loved making her happy.

"Are you sure you do not wish me to stay? I can still say no to him if you need me with you." I did not want her to be lonely.

She shook her head and waved her hand, "Don't worry about me. I was planning on sleeping most of the morning away so I'll be fine. What will you read to me?"

"How would you like to hear some Shakespeare?"

"We do not own any of that sort of thing."

I patted her arm reassuringly after I finished tying my boot laces. "I am sure I can get my hands on some. I have a feeling there is a stash in the house somewhere, it is just a matter of sniffing it out."

I met him by the bottom of the staircase. I had the feeling that he did not wish anyone to know that I was traveling into town with him. I wondered what he was afraid of.

He was in a chatty mood on the hansom ride to the train and at length told me that he was in search of a new violin.

"I thought that it was irreplaceable?" I kept my voice neutral, not wanted to appear as though I were making light of the situation in any way.

His eyes were twinkling but the usual seriousness was present. "I did. But I thought about what you said."

"Really? What was that again?"

"You said my stepfather's actions were petty. I realized mine would be too if I were to deprive myself of a new instrument."

"How is that?" I did not quite understand his logic.

"It would be like a spoiled child refusing to cry while being beat. I will not hold out simply to prove that he did not hurt me. He did, I will admit it and move on."

I was surprised at his admission, but there was something different about him today. An openness that was rare and refreshing.

We were silent until we boarded the train and sat across from each other. I busied myself watching the scenery, but noticed him looking at me.

I faced him and raised my eyebrows, "Yes?"

"Are you and James getting married?"

I was shocked, "Who told you that?"

"It's been going around for a bit now."

"Has it?" I did not like the thought of people talking behind my back.

"Are you?"

"No."

"Have you spoken of it?"

"No."

"Would you marry him if he asked you?"

I struggled for an answer and finally settled on a pathetic, "I'm not sure."

"What's the problem?" he asked lazily, as if not really interested.

I shrugged, "I'm not sure I wish to." I hoped he would drop the subject.

He pursed his lips, appearing to be deep in thought, "It could be your chance to rise up."

"I don't want to marry to rise up."

"That's admirable." He sounded as if he meant it.

I smiled, "It's foolish."

"It's still admirable."

"I don't need him to save me," I offered without being asked. He unbuttoned the top of his suit jacket and shifted to get more comfortable, tilting his head back to rest, his eyes closed. I was afforded a pleasant view of the underside of his jaw and the almost graceful curves and valleys of his neck. I stared at him, wondering what he would do if I leaned over and kissed the exposed spot.

"But if you loved him, you wouldn't mind?" he asked.

I didn't answer, still lost in my thoughts. He moved his head slightly, staring at me through half-closed eyes. He didn't react, but I got the distinct impression that he knew exactly what I had been thinking.

"If I loved a man . . ." I started but suddenly grew uncomfortable speaking to him on this topic. "Why must you press me with such matters?"

He laughed, "I do not mean to make you defensive, Mary. If you do not wish to speak of it then we will not. I was just curious."

"It is a rude thing to pry. I will not prod you for information when you begin courting some lady."

"Thank you. That is a considerate thing." His voice was mocking.

"Not that any sane woman could tolerate you for more than a day, so I will probably not have to put my promise to any practice."

A slow smile spread across his face, "You must warn me before you say such things, Mary. You have a distinctly sharp sense of humor, I must be given time to prepare myself for it."

I tried not to smile back. "And what of you? Do you wish to be married?" He made a distasteful look.

"Have you never been interested in a young lady?" I asked, surprised by his indifference.

"Not particularly. I don't mean to be offensive but I am not fond of women of certain classes." He jaw tightened, "I don't appreciate the thought of being another thing they've come to possess, like their silk gloves and petticoats." He sounded bitter and I wondered what devious young woman had crossed his path before. He leveled his grey eyes onto me with unsettling seriousness, "You see, Mary, like you, I am also bound by certain . . . restrictions."

I willed myself not to look away, "But if you weren't?"

He just stared at me as if that in and of itself was answer enough. I looked away and watched the scenery.

* * *

The shop was crowded with shelves laying close to one another, cluttered with various items. A long glass case filled with jewelry was used as the cashier's station. My cheerful escort wandered over to examine the items under lock and key. Crouching down to get a better look, his expensive wool jacket pooled onto the floor behind him. He furrowed his brow in scrutiny.

"Half this stuff is not worth the paper it's resting on."

I stepped over his coat and perused some of the items. "I would not mention that to the owner of this fine establishment," I warned.

"Yes, well, I imagine there are a great many things that you would not do that I would." I was prepared to ask him to explain exactly what he meant by that but was interrupted by a polite cough to my left. An older man stood in the doorway that led to the back of the shop, watching us intently.

"May I help you?" His attention was directed at my acquaintance.

The two men shook hands as they introduced themselves. I was largely ignored, except for the fact that "Mr. Godfrey" kept shooting glances at me from the corner of his eye. He informed us he was the owner of the store and listened attentively as my companion described what he was looking for.

"I think I may have something in the back that would suit you. If you would just wait a moment please?"

He departed into the back and swiftly returned with a glossy and well-formed violin and bow.

"May we give it a try?" I could tell that he was hopeful that this violin would be as good as it looked.

Mr. Godfrey smiled widely and pushed the violin towards us, "Yes, of course. Will you or the lady be playing?"

I waved my hand self-consciously, "No, I would not even know how to begin." I was not going to grace a perfect stranger with my horrid playing abilities.

He put a hand to his heart in mock indignation, "But I can tell that you are such a talented young lady. And you must know some about music, since your friend here has brought you along to choose such an instrument."

My "friend's" voice cut in sharply, "She works for me."

A confused expression passed over the older man's face, much like the one that showed on my face when I was told I was to accompany him here.

The owner finally shrugged, "Well, I certainly do hope that you are compensating her well." He directed his attention to me, "If you ever need another change of employment, young miss, you can always come here to work for me. I am sure that your pretty face would draw lots of business."

I grew tired of the conversation and shrugged in response. Turning away from him I went to browse the items on the shelves. I heard sounds of a violin being tuned behind me.

Skipping over the many vases and cigarette cases that lay on display, I came to a beautiful set of hair combs and a matching brush. Made of ivory and intricately painted with blue and purple, they were the most stunning things I had ever seen. A ran an appreciative hand over them and jumped when Mr. Godfrey appeared suddenly at my side.

"Beautiful, are they not?"

I murmured an appreciative accord and nodded, trying to ignore the fact that he was standing too close.

"They are the finest in ladies accessories that I have here. Would you like to feel the brush? It is the softest you will ever encounter."

"Oh, no, that is quite okay." I was starting to feel uncomfortable with his nearness and avoided eye contact.

He did not leave though, and I tried to shrug off the feeling of awkwardness and discomfiture that was developing. I tried to convince myself that I was overreacting to a simple conversation.

I heard footsteps behind me and a long arm reached between us to finger the brush. Mr. Godfrey was forced to take a step back or run the risk of being battered in the face with my comrade's elbow. I tried to read the always elusive man's face for hints, but could not deduce whether his saving act was intentional or not.

"It is really quite soft." He stepped fully between us now and my face was hid by his chest. I felt relieved that I was blocked from the other man's view and not at all uncomfortable with my companion's proximity.

His jacket lapel brushed across my cheek.

"Will you total it for me?" Even though he spoke to Mr. Godfrey, he looked into my face, his pale eyes searching my features for an answer to an unspoken question.

My hand unconsciously flew to my hair to smooth it. I did not feel that I was in a position to own something of such value, but I could not deny that it was desirable.

Both the men took my silence as an assent and Mr. Godfrey carried the items delicately to the counter. He retrieved his pad and poised his pen over it. "Will you be purchasing the violin also, sir?"

The younger man shrugged and then turned to me, "Will you listen? Let me know what you think?"

I started back from him, startled at the question. "Why on earth would you care what I think?"

"I was hoping you might be able to settle an argument that my logic is having with my musical ear," he replied.

Mr. Godfrey cut in, his voice full of practiced neutrality, "Is there a problem, sir?"

"Actually, it is just that I am aware that this is a finely made instrument and that the sound it produces is little short of perfection but . . . well, I am unsatisfied with it for some unexplained reason." He turned his attention to me again. "I was hoping that you would help me pinpoint the difficulty, since you listen very often to my playing."

I understood that he was placing his faith in my opinion and, although I was uncomfortable with the notion, I was pleased all the same. I made a gesture to encourage him to continue and he lifted the instrument to his chin and tucked it under almost lovingly.

A few chords were struck and sonorous notes bounced through the small room. It was brilliant playing and the sound was ideal but . . . lacking.

He finally lowered his arms and looked at me intently, his face sharp and alert. I suddenly felt like a prey that he was determined to catch and subdue. He would not let me go until he was satisfied with my response.

Mr. Godfrey was also looking at me, a vague look of warning of his face. He wanted me to advise him to buy it. I did not like so many things expected of me - especially not from two different men.

"It was good." I was stammering.

His head inched just slightly to the right, "Merely good?"

"It was perfect . . ." I finally sputtered out and then paused to gather my thoughts. "It was unworthy of you. It was defunct of feeling and made you playing seem dispassionate. Your music has always had a . . . effect on those who take the time to listen. This instrument did not do that justice. But it was a perfect sound."

A smile flashed on his face but I could still see disappointment there as he turned to look at Mr. Godfrey. The set of his jaw was reflected in the hanging mirror on the wall.

"Just the brush and combs please."

I put my hand on his arm, "You do not have to purchase such a thing for me. I am sure your mother is not opposed to me borrowing her items if ever the need arose. Do not feel obligated simply because I admired them."

He did not face me, "It is no trouble. I have a little spare change since I am apparently not laying hands on another instrument today."

I started to protest again but the package was wrapped and thrust into my possession. The proper amount was counted out as Mr. Godfrey addressed me, "You should be thankful girl. Most women are not beautiful enough to retrieve gifts without vying for them first."

"What about your wife, sir?" My escort's voice was sharp, sardonic. "Does she receive gifts without vying?"

Mr. Godfrey turned the most unpleasant shade of pink as I examined his hand for a wedding band. It was bare.

"Well . . . she isn't really the sort to put much stock in gifts."

The younger man smiled, replying with a touch of bitterness, "You should appreciate that. Most women do."


	21. The Uncertain Glory of an April Day

Chapter 17: The Uncertain Glory of an April Day

* * *

"What are your plans for the day?" We had alighted from the carriage when he posed that idle question, barely looking at me as I clutched my newly wrapped package in my hands.

"I was going to go to the lake." I volunteered, wondering why he was interested.

He patted the side of the carriage horse, looking bemused by my statement. "What lake?"

"The one past the orchard . . . in your yard." He walked with me as I began to wander down the dirt path to the side of the house. "Do you not know what's in your own yard?"

"You're referring to the pond? I haven't been there since I was a boy." I flushed at his correction but refused to look embarrassed.

"Would you like some company?" he asked, after realizing I would not rise to his bait and defend myself.

I kicked a pebble, feeling flustered by his request.

He observed my silence and misconstrued it, "I'm sorry, that was forward. Perhaps you are meeting someone there."

"No!" I answered quickly, though it hadn't really been a question. He stopped and stared at me, seeming to be at a loss as to what to do or say. It was amusing, but I regarded him solemnly. "If you would like to come, you may, though my activities there may not be of great interest to you."

He smirked at something I was not privy to and then shrugged, "You may be surprised at what I can find interest in."

The comment sidled by without response as I continued my walk to the outer edge of the fence. I opened the latch and walked out to the grove, letting him tread through behind me as I held the gate for him. He didn't comment on my gentlemanly action, though I knew he had noted it.

I'm sure he found it highly entertaining.

We switched places as I secured the gate, observing his back, relaxed and strong, in front of me. I opened my mouth to inquire if he knew the way but flinched as a loud bang cracked the still air. We both spun around and a second later he exploded into a fit of laughter behind me, while I tried to keep my composure at what I was seeing. The gate hung on its hinges, and half the fence on the right side had tipped over.

"I don't know why you're laughing," I commented as I turned to him, noting how endearing he looked when he allowed himself to smile, "You're going to be back out here fixing it now."

He shrugged again, a habit that could easily be amusing or irritating, and I strode past him, resuming my position as leader.

When we reached the pond, we both stood to gaze at it before he shifted to look at my profile. "So, what do you usually do here?"

I blushed. "I swim."

"In what . . ." he trailed off and blushed as well. Starting away from me, he bent to pick up a smooth rock; tossing it easily into the still water and watching it skip almost musically across the surface. "I didn't mean to intrude."

"I wouldn't allow you to intrude if I didn't want you to." I bent to sift through the grass, ignoring his look at whatever my words may have implied. I settled my package a safe distance from the water and picked a nice rock. I mimicked his stance to toss it. It sunk without any grace. He snorted at me drolly.

I bit back a reply and asked if he minded that I remove my shoes. I didn't wait for him to answer and slipped off the constricting things, removing my socks quickly. When I rose, he stared at my feet until I colored with self-consciousness.

"They're only feet," I huffed.

"I didn't say they were anything else."

I sighed, trailing my foot into the crisp water, swirling it languidly with my toes. The small rocks under my soles bit into the sensitive and rarely used skin but it didn't bother me. I glanced up at him to see if he were still watching me but his back was turned, crouching down to search among the dank grass. I stepped further into the pond, my petticoat skimming the top.

He shifted behind me and I heard his shoes against the pebbles, coming closer. I pretended to ignore him, not wanting to him to think I was paying close attention to his every movement. When I heard him again, he seemed surprisingly near.

"You are not laced up."

My hand flew to my back to see that he was indeed correct, I had missed a grommet about halfway up my back as I'd dressed. I blushed furiously, fingering the material and ascertaining if I was indecent or not. I could feel my shift beneath my dress, though it wasn't as immodest as I feared.

There wasn't much I could do to rectify it on my own. I usually delegated the lacing up of my dresses to my mum and found that, though I could touch the spot, I would not be able to work the lace into the loop on my own.

My body jerked back suddenly as he took it upon himself to loosen the laces and aid me. I stood still as I could, my heart skipping with each tug and each brush of his leather gloves. He re-threaded it quickly and efficiently and tied it at in a neat knot. The pebbles shifted around and he was done.

Before I could turn to thank him, I felt my scarf tumbling from my neck and falling to my feet. His fingers breezed across the exposed skin above my dress, ghosting across the bottom of my neck and playing softly with the few tendrils that hung there.

He had removed his gloves.

I went rigid, so much so that he stilled in his movement before resuming his travels slowly. The pads of his fingers were wet from condensation, but were surprisingly warm against my chilled skin. I bit down on the fleshy sides of my tongue, keeping myself from asking what are you doing?

His hand stalked across my shoulder and back, more assertive than before, trailing up my neck and tangling for a moment in my upswept hair. He stayed at my hair for a bit, giving me ample opportunity to pull away from him. My mouth fell open, prepared to say something, I'm not sure what, but only a rush of air escaped. At the sound, he moved again, whispering behind my ear and across my jaw, his fingernails raking against my skin. His large hands wandered down the sensitive underside of my neck before pressing lightly down on my heart, palm flat against the rapid beating that could be felt there. The mist in the skies clung to my face and my breath could be seen in the air, abrupt and shallow.

I licked my lips and swallowed, trying to wet my throat, which had become unbearably dry. It didn't help, but every pant rasped raw against my chest and lungs. We stayed like that for some time, before I realized that he was moving incrementally up to my face. His hand vacillated though and disappeared back around to claim space on my spine, his hand shaking noticeably as he spread it out, and his fingers almost braceleting my neck.

I felt him shift and heard the grass swish beneath his boots. I knew that he was standing right behind me, his breath rustled against the few strands of hair that were too short to stay in my clips.

"The golden hours on angel wings flew o'er me and my Dearie, for dear to me, as light and life, was my sweet Highland Mary," he rasped; his lilt stronger than I had ever heard it before; I realized then that it meant he wasn't as cognizant of himself as was usual.

"Pretty," I managed to choke out, my voice wavering and surprisingly throaty. I could feel my words vibrating against his fingers. "But I'm not Scottish." It was a jest, meant to diffuse the tension and give him ample time to collect himself and retreat. But he did not. In fact, he did not even acknowledge my words.

"Do you want me to kiss you?" he purred into my ear instead, the uncertainty in his voice barely covered by the low intensity of his tone. His lips brushed against my neck and his hand slid around my waist, delicately groping the softness of my stomach and guiding me back to press against him.

"No," I blurted out, the words hurting my dry throat. _Yes_. I didn't mean to sound abrupt, my words harsh with confusion and fear. Fear of something.

His hand was gone immediately. He offered a quick, albeit strangled, apology before disappearing back in the direction of the house.

* * *

"Mum. Look at these." I thrust the brush and combs under my mother's nose. I had just spent a great deal of time sitting by the pond in solitude, thinking things over until my head hurt and returned to find my mother still resting in her bedchamber. I climbed onto the cot with her and sat on my knees.

"Can you believe it? They look just like a lady's." I continued to hold them out to her as she settled into a sitting position. She put her hand on my knee, while feeling the gift with her other. "He bought those for you?"

"Yes. He could not find a suitable violin and I think he simply wanted to spend his money on something." I went to the mirror and tried to pin my hair up with the comb. The purple and white complimented my hair nicely.

"He is buying you gifts now?" My mother sounded suspicious.

I looked at her reflection in the mirror. "What do you mean by that?" I pulled my shawl up, feeling as though somehow she would be able to see the trail his hands made on my shoulders.

"Nothing, dear." My mum arranged her slip and swung her legs out of the bed, pressing her fingers to her head in pain.

I ignored her condition and pressed her to continue, "Please, say what you are thinking."

She continued to massage her temples for a while before answering me, "Do you not think it a tad odd for a gentleman to buy you gifts?"

I continued my preening. "He did not purchase them as a gift from a gentleman to a lady. He was just being kind because I admired them."

"But you are a lady, Mary. I merely want you to be the right kind."

"The right kind? I am afraid I do not understand you." I moved away from the mirror and came and stood on her side of the bed, willing myself not to look guilty about my day's activities.

"There are many types of ladies, Mary." She looked tired and I knew that she was not well. I went to guide her back down to the pillow.

"And which type am I?"

She resisted my efforts and stood up to grasp my face. "You are the best kind, sweetheart. It does not come from money or . . . pretension. It comes from the inside. It is your character and your purity. That is how I wish you to remain. I do not want you to become . . ."

I removed her hands; a bad feeling developing in my chest. "Become? Become what, mum?"

She gave me a sad smile. "The type of lady who receives gifts from gentlemen who have no intention of marrying you."

I took a step back, flustered at the thought. "Marriage? No one has spoken of marriage."

"That is exactly my point."

"No, that is exactly my point."

She stared at me; unseeingly but no less disconcertingly. "Do not do anything you will regret, Mary."

"I have not made any plans to." My skin tingled where he had touched.

She sat back down, clasping her hands together in her lap. She looked spent by our conversation. "You just need to remember that you can find yourself making decisions that affect your entire life. I do not want you to ever look back and wish you had . . . acted differently."

"Do you?"

"What do you mean?"

"Are you saying you have regrets?" I knew I should not ask. I knew I may not want to know the answer.

"Yes." It was barely audible, but I caught it.

"What?"

"I regret where I ended up, that is all."

"Do you regret marrying daddy?" I tried to back her into a corner; I had never been so cruel to her before.

"Yes."

I was shocked into silence. I had not expected her to respond in that manner.

"Why ever for?" I asked after an eternity. "You loved each other; he treated you so well. You had no idea he would . . . pass away so soon."

"But he did."

I reached for her hands this time but she would not look up at me. "You persevered, mum. You have your pride. You can say that you survived."

"But not without compromising myself." She sounded as if she were confessing and it made me uncomfortable.

"How?"

"Darling, did you never wonder why we were forced to leave Ireland?"

"Yes, but . . ."

"Do you not remember how we left our home?"

Memories came into my mind of running, my bare feet slapping against some hard cobblestone. My dress was wet but I had not enough time to put a slip under it. I was being dragged by her . . . and chased.

"A little. Why did they run us out?"

"They said they did not want me there because of what I was. I took the chance to start over."

"What exactly were you?" I knew before I even asked. Somehow I had always suspected somewhere in a part of me that was reluctant to acknowledge it.

"They found out . . ." she was crying now, "You were just so young and I had to take care of you." She grasped my hands as if she were afraid to let me go. "Money was so hard to come by."

I pulled my hands away, repugnance mixing with compassion. I stared at her and then turned away.

I started to leave. "I cannot . . ."

"Mary."

I was out of the door, my mind in a tumble of memories now tainted with her confession, like a portrait marred by sticky fingers. I was nearly down the hall when I heard the thump from the room.

I was not sure what it was, or what ill it boded, but my anger dissipated into a great cloud of worry. I retraced my steps back to the room but could not seem to will my feet to move very speedily.

On the other side of the threshold, my mother lay prone on the floor, apparently having tipped headfirst from her sitting position on the side of the bed.

I had lived in that crowded room for over a year. I knew its shadows, its drafty spots, the bumps and curves of the old mattress. But now that doorway was an entryway into another world that didn't really exist, that I was suddenly alienated from. As long as I did not cross it, I would not really be part of it.

I heard the distinct step of Mrs. Wilson with her sprained ankle walk around me and she went to my mother's side with no hesitation. She leaned down and brought her face close to my mum's. They stayed that way for a great deal of time like some horrible painting created just to torment me.

After what seemed like an eternity passed, she raised her eyes to look at me, her hand resting on my mother's back. She did not have to say anything; I could read the truth in the lines of her face and the sympathy in her eyes. Mrs. Wilson stood with difficulty, came to me, attempted to embrace me, but I pushed her away and she fell back.

Arms wrapped around my waist and grabbed my hands, pulling them together under my chin as if I were participating in a forced prayer. I was lifted and brought out of the hall and into the kitchen. I fought all the way, but my kicks and struggles did not seem to faze my holder and he just kept leading me and leading me away, half carrying me towards the back door, but I wanted nothing more than to go back to my mother, to try to wake her because Mrs. Wilson had obviously not tried hard enough. I landed a hard kick to the shin of the person behind me and heard a soft curse. The arms did not slacken though, and there was a firm but gentle voice behind my ear, "Stop fighting me, Mary. I am trying to help you."

"Let me go," I begged. My voice was rising shrilly, I hardly even recognized it.

"Shhhh . . . everything will be alright." He grabbed at my chin, trying to still my frantic thrashing and the knocking of my head against his face.

"You said that before! You lied!" It was the last thing I remember saying.


	22. I Go, It Is Done

Chapter 18: I Go, It Is Done

* * *

My mother was buried a few days later. Only three were in attendance. The coffin and arrangements were handled by Mrs. Wilson. It was not her responsibility to pay for my mother's burial but it was a kindness on her part to take it upon herself. It was a gesture that I could not adequately express gratitude for or repay.

The doctor's preliminary judgment was that my mum had a growth on her brain that pushed too far and eventually killed her. They think her blindness may have been a manifestation of this.

Mrs. Wilson did not act shocked when told about my mother's infirmity apparently already being privy to it. Her silent acceptance of the disability, unbeknownst to me, was another consideration that was owed thanks. I was not in any condition to do so, however, and lived the next few weeks in a bad temper.

After the quiet services, I stayed seated on the damp patch of earth that she lay buried under. I dug my fingers absently into the soft soil, fingering the clump of violets that had been placed there by . . . him.

She was only six feet away from me, but I never felt farther from her.

He came and sat by me as the sun was disappearing over the horizon and filtering pink and purple rays through the trees. He murmured an elegy, soft and haunting next to my ear:

"Music, when soft voices die,

Vibrates in the memory,

Odours, when sweet violets sicken,

Live within the sense they quicken.

Rose leaves, when the rose is dead

Are heaped for the beloved's bed

And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,

Love itself shall slumber on."

I turned to face him, my eyes unfocused but feeling as if were seeing him clearly for the first time. He avoided my gaze and stared out into the field. He settled on his knees, his dark black trousers dug thoughtlessly into the ground.

It was odd seeing him turn away from me. He was not one to be easily intimidated. Seeing the suffering of another seemed to stir some emotion in his usually cold demeanor; he did not appear to know what to say to me.

He looked very tired.

My eyes traveled over his features, as he did his best to appear as though he did not notice my scrutiny. There were a few random freckles on the left side of his face that I had never been close enough to notice before. I leaned forward and kissed his cheek.

Tears that I did not know I was shedding spread across his face where my skin grazed his. My lips near his ear, I spoke to him softly, my mind far from where we were. "I remember now, what I was running from."

He shifted his head to look at me, his face so near to my own that he regarded me from an awkward angle. I noticed his discomfort but would not turn away. He did not look as though he knew what I was speaking of.

"The scar . . ." I elaborated, "I fell running from our home. We were being chased. She . . . we were forced out, because of what she was."

"Mary . . ." His voice was low, husky with stifled emotion. I knew then that I did not need to explain what I had so recently learned about my mother. I wondered how long he had known. We stared at each other for a great while, neither noticing that our breathing had become ragged, heavy.

His breath blew across my face and his eyes traveled down to where my chest heaved with restrained sobs and moist with dew. It was not an entirely innocuous roaming and his face flushed as his eyes met mine once again. I leaned towards him, my skin suddenly feeling warm as I slipped an arm around his waist. Emotional upset making me cleave to him, creating an almost irrational hunger to be as near to him as possible.

He pulled away suddenly, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. He helped me up as I crushed my face into his neck, not willing to let him pull away so easily. He bent to pluck a lone flower from the humble bouquet, slipping it into my hand. As we started our walk back to the carriage that lay ready to bear us away from St. Patrick's, I could feel his heart hammering against where my shoulder snuggled into his chest. I laid my head on him.

He let me rest there, and that was what I needed.


	23. I Know a Bank Where the Wild Thyme Grows

Chapter 19: I Know a Bank Where the Wild Thyme Grows

"She reminds me of the Cheshire cat." I sensed rather than felt him behind me. Even the silence did not deter me from believing he was there and that he heard me. The lack of response did not perturb me in the least, anyway, as I was quite use to his moods. Perfectly content to stay crouched, running a languid hand over the ground's stray cat, I waited patiently for him to speak.

"And why is that exactly?" His boots appeared to the right of me, and then his face as he mimicked my posture, neither of us caring about the wetness saturating into our garments. Settling his elbows on his knees, he stared intently at me with those staggering eyes of his.

I tilted the small kitten's chin to gesture to the thin white fringe of hair near its mouth, the presence of which called to mind a smiling cat.

"Because it appears to be grinning."

"Cats do not grin." He sounded baffled. The kitty dug its damp little paws into his trouser leg.

I withheld the sigh that was trying to escape my throat. "I'm perfectly aware of that. I'm talking about the grinning cat from Wonderland."

There was a silence that followed as I observed him searching through his pockets for something.

I settled more fully on the green knoll as he finally located his cigarette case and matches. In my attempt to get more comfortable my skirt sneaked up on me, exposing my boot and calf. Blushing profusely, I quickly covered myself, pulling me legs under me. The fog rolled lazily around us, seeking comfort around our toes from the darkening heights.

I stole a glance at him as he struck his match and inhaled deeply on his first smoke. Through the blue haze he examined me. "So where is this wonderland?"

"In Alice's mind."

"Who in the world is Alice?"

"It was in your book." I sounded short with him.

He looked surprised, perhaps that I had remembered a thing that seemed so long ago, "That's right."

I flashed him an amused smile that didn't reach my eyes and watched him settle down next to me; his long legs drawn up to his chest.

"You've never read it?"

"What was that?" he asked, leaning into me mockingly, avoiding the question blatantly and allowing his cool breath to waft over my neck and cheek.

"Alice in Wonderland? You've never read it, but you told your mum to buy it for me?"

He shrugged dismissively, "As you know, my reading material is very limited."

"Seems odd. How did you know I'd like it?"

"It's a children's book, isn't it?"

"Well," I fixed my attentions on the kitten, stroking it between its ears, "It is a wonderful book. Alice chases a rabbit into Wonderland and meets a Cheshire cat that grins and talks. She also meets a mad hatter and March hare who are stuck at tea-time."

"Why are they stuck at tea-time?"

My gaze wandered to his face to try to discern whether the interest in his voice was sincere or not. He was smirking at me but a faint twinkle in his eye betrayed his curiosity.

"Because the Mad Hatter had a disagreement with Time and so it stopped . . . working for him. So he was always stuck at tea. When he wanted a new cup he would simply move down a space at the table, over and over."

The smirk widened into a smile, "So what happens when they run out of clean cups?"

My smile matched his. Leaning toward him conspiratorially, I rested my chin on my own shoulder. "That's the exact same thing that Alice asked."

He leaned back on his elbows and stretched out. I resisted the urge to reprimand him for getting his suit wet.

"Sounds interesting." He wiggled his foot and sent the cat scurrying off in a sudden fright.

Seeing that there was not another soul in sight, I boldly stretched out next to him, letting the dampness seep into my back, feeling my hair tug at the ivory comb that I now wore at all times.

I felt him move and his shoulder touched mine then disappeared. He shifted again and this time did not move away when his arm pressed against me, silently letting me know he was close.

In the five months that had passed since my mother had died he never spoke of it. Never asked me how I was doing. But his silent presence at my side was more comforting than any verbal sympathy. Even the smell of his horrible chemical experiments was welcome to me and I sometimes would sit in my usual chair next to his table without doing anything at all simply to be near him while he tinkered with his toys. He was the only person in the house I would talk up now, though he had grown more silent over the weeks.

I pressed my legs together and let them drop slightly to the side, resting against his. I wanted to clothe myself in him, wanted him to shelter me. But we both knew that was not possible.

He tilted his head to the side and closed his eyes. I traced his Adams-apple and jaw with my eyes. He leaned down, the back of his head hitting the grass before he slowly lowered his spine onto the ground. He slid his arms across his forehead, his gloved hand wiping at the dew on his face. It was foggy in a melancholy sort of way, the skies grey and purple, the air filled with water that collected in the hollow of my throat as I lay unshielded from the weather next to him.

I boldly turned my body and lowered my head onto his chest. He jolted at the initial shock of it, but I felt him yield under me. I slid an arm around his waist, reveling in the feeling of having someone next to me. Since my mum had died, my bed had seemed too large.

His hand came down tentatively onto my head. "Je suis ici, ma fille," he murmured softly.

I closed my eyes. He ran his hand up my neck and I sighed at the first touch. I felt an almost surpassing comfort there in that moment, wondering if this is how we were meant to speak to each other, beyond the tedium of everyday conversation. In this way, we are outside our words, our motions perfected; our feelings clear.

I had a vivid vision of his hand emerging out from under my tousled hair, resting on my pillow, or rather, our pillow; his arm under my neck, fitting the soft curve perfectly, as if it were made for him. The daylight is filtering through the window, cool morning air drowning my senses; the window is cracked open, letting in a fine blanket of mist from outside. I smile and his hand moves, his fingers flexing absently during his slumber. I hold my breath until he settles back into a still sleep, unfettered by uncertainty or hesitation, troubled by nothing.

"Mary." My untenable thoughts are cut into by his lazy voice, though slightly strained.

"Hmm?" I murmured, cracking my eyes open. The vapor was flooding over his chest, making me squint. His arm covered my eyes as he raised it to draw deeply on his cigarette, his other arm now draped naturally across my shoulders. My response was slow, absent. I was still envisioning us in bed.

"I've decided to go to University." His sudden statement was rather startling and I stared at him unwaveringly through half-lidded eyes.

"That's good for you," I stammered, my words evaporating into a burst of frost against his chest. I hoped that the unexpected sadness that filled my lungs was not seeping through my words. "What do you intend to study? Chemistry?"

He shrugged, moving my head along with his shoulder, "It is the only thing I'm good at . . . that I can make a living off of."

"How will you pay for it?"

"My monthly allowance will cover most. My stepfather has agreed reluctantly to pay for all other costs. I think he's mainly hoping that if I get out on my own that I'll never ask him for anything again. This is, of course, entirely correct. My brother in London is also willing to help me."

"Going into the world at last? Suppose you've been hiding from it for long enough?"

"The world is a cruel jest. You cannot hide from it, it catches up eventually."

"Then I suppose it's found you at last?" I inquired gently, perturbed by his harsh words.

"It found me years ago."

"You're brilliant," I conceded softly, "You're able to do what you want. Your life is your own and no one -"

"No one's life is their own," he interrupted, his voice wintry and edged, "and that which we're allowed to taste is pathetic and futile."

"I don't believe that. You enjoy many things…your chemistry, your violin, your books and . . ." I took a breath, "do you not find me satisfying as well?"

He was quiet for a great length of time. I refused to speak. I refused to allow him to dodge the question. He finally sighed heavily, his hand wiping at the mist on the back of my neck. "These are only moments, Mary. Soon they pass away and all that's left is a shadow. Or worse . . . misery."

"You make it sound as if there is no point to anything." His words made me emotional. I hated knowing he felt that way.

"Perhaps there isn't."

I pressed my face into his chest and took a deep breath, "Then why leave?" I argued.

"I can't . . ." He trailed off before clearing his throat, "I want the freedom to do what I wish. I can't have that here. I don't want the usual 'of North Riding' to follow my name everywhere I go and along with it all the expectations of someone of my class, whether it be about my profession…or marriage." His hand roamed to my waist, gently kneading the curve of my back and sliding up and down my side. My heart skipped at his words. "And Jane . . . I can't handle Jane anymore," he confessed. I could feel him shift; looking away from me though I couldn't see his face anyway. "I don't know what she wants from me."

"I can guess," I muttered into his vest, my words unclear but not so much that he didn't catch them. He had never spoken so openly with me about this, and it surprised me to realize that he knew I was aware of it.

"She's becoming . . . insistent. I don't want to deal with it anymore."

I pursed my lips. I hadn't noticed her giving him attention at all lately, which only meant that more was happening in private. The thought angered me. I clenched my jaw and held onto his waist tight enough to make him squirm.

He pressed his face into my hair. We stayed like that for a while, silent and tense. "You're not wearing a corset," he whispered onto the top of my head. He massaged my waist harder. I felt him smile into my hair. "Who would have guessed women are actually soft under all that stiff material?"

I laughed nervously, the sudden lack of restraint allowing my eyes to well up. "When do you leave?"

His smile faded, "A week before Christmas."

I looked up at him, though I could only see his neck. The scruff of his neck scratched the bridge of my nose. "Two months?" I breathed.

He didn't respond.

I shifted onto my back and looked up at the sky, hoping the dew would disguise the tears gathering behind my eyes.


End file.
